


First Impressions

by Allidon



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: F/M, M/M, but the idea wouldn't leave me alone, i have no idea if this works, ian is lizzie, mickey is darcy, modern day pride and prejudice au, this is probably total garbage ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 08:09:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 59,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1933395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allidon/pseuds/Allidon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a <strike>wife</strike> husband.”</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a modern day AU based on Pride and Prejudice. I'm not entirely sure if I'm doing either story/universe justice, but we'll see. Putting this first chapter out to see if there's any interest for more.

When news first breaks that the Lishman Corporation is opening one of its flagship free clinics in Canaryville, Fiona Gallagher’s first reaction is one of bone-crushing relief. No more sitting up with sick kids hoping they don’t get worse because she can’t afford the bills, no more wanting to curl up in a ball and cry when Carl finds yet another way to break his own bones, no more panicking when Ian’s medication runs out and she hasn’t got the money for more. It seems like their entire lives revolve around money, how much they don’t have and when more is coming in and what needs to be paid when it does. She is still haunted by the memory of last winter, sitting next to Liam’s hospital bed as the doctors got his breathing regulated and she vacillated between hoping he got better and praying that the health insurance from her last job hadn’t been cancelled yet. She’d been let go the day before, eight days before Christmas, and the excuses would have felt sincere if she hadn’t heard them so many times before. _Cutbacks. You were last in, it’s just unfortunate. We’ll call you if anything else comes up._ She could recite every single one from memory.

The health insurance _had_ been cancelled, of course, which was just their shitty luck, and so they’d spent three weeks without heat, huddling into beds together to keep warm, until Carl of all people had arrived home with a bundle of torn notes and pressed them into her hand. She’d stared at him in disbelief and he’d just rolled his eyes at her and told her to get the gas turned on already, because he was fucking freezing and sick of sharing his bed with Liam. She never asked him where he got the money, or told him that she knew that Liam ended up in his bed anyway, more often than not; she’d just hugged the package he’d given her into her chest, taken a moment to breathe and blink away the exhausted tears in her eyes and then reached for the one phone they had left that hadn’t been cut off.

She watches the news channel intently as they repeat the story, listening to one of the Lishmans talking about how they grew up in Chicago and felt the need to give something back to their city, and allows a tiny part of herself to hope that this is the start of things getting better.

*

In contrast, Frank Gallagher’s first reaction is a rambling monologue about the arrogance of the rich and the pitfalls of modern medicine and how doctors think they know it all but really they’re just out for all they can get. He’s sitting at the bar in The Alibi, it’s eleven am and already most of the regulars are in attendance, groaning as they become aware that Frank’s on his high horse about something _yet again._

“Must be Wednesday,” Tommy mutters under his breath, deliberately avoiding making eye contact. He knows from experience that engaging Frank when he’s like this will only ruin his morning.

“ _Their_ city,” Frank is saying scornfully, as the news channel that Kev’s set the flatscreen onto re-runs the same clip of the Lishman brothers over and over again. “They don’t know shit about this city. These rich pricks think they can come here and tell us how to live our lives?”

There’s a moment of silence as everyone exchanges knowing looks, and then Kermit hesitantly mentions his mother’s gammy leg, his girlfriend’s heart condition and Frank immediately changes direction. “Doctors,” he says, pointing his beer down the bar at Kermit. “Are crooks. Making up all these bullshit diseases—and _why_? So that schmucks like us will _pay_ them to cure us. Well, I’m not falling for it. We don’t need their fucking charity.”

“It’s a _free_ clinic, Frank,” Kev points out tiredly. “They’re not asking for anything.”

“Ah, not yet they’re not.” Frank’s attention swings back to Kev, whose shoulders noticeably sag. “But just you wait, Kevin. Just you wait, once they’ve got us right where they want us then they’ll stick their hands out. You mark my words…”

He rambles on for a good ten minutes, getting louder and louder with his arms waving wildly, while Kev nods and pretends to listen and Kate rolls her eyes and turns her back on them to stack the pint glasses. Frank’s in the middle of a rant about the medical profession getting people hooked on drugs so that they can charge them to keep giving them out, when he pauses to try and swindle a free shot of whiskey out of Kev and then stops mid-sentence as an idea occurs to him. He’s out of the door like a shot, Kev’s mouth hanging open as he watches him go, and as it swings shut behind him everyone in the bar breathes a sigh of relief. Kev takes a shot for himself instead, downs it, and considers it well-deserved for having not punched Frank in the face.

*

Fiona’s second reaction is to wonder about the possibility of maybe getting a job. She’s done admin and reception work before, even if it _was_ just temping, and she’s sure a venture of this size will need a good few people to deal with paperwork. It would be ideal she thinks, well-paid with good benefits, and she knows that if she can only find a way to get her foot in the door, she could be good at it. She runs a household of five kids, for fuck’s sake, has done since she was seventeen, and working admin is a piece of cake in comparison. There’s a sudden fire in her belly, lit by the possibility, however small, of things maybe going right for them, just this once. She scours the article that appears in the local paper the next day, but it’s too focused on the fact that so many people in their neighbourhood will be able to access healthcare for the first time and the only mention of employment opportunities is in a tiny addendum at the end, with a New York phone number for anyone who might have enquiries. Her fingers fly over the phone keys, not even thinking about how much the long-distance call might cost her, and within minutes she’s talking to a snooty receptionist who tells her that recruitment will be advertised nearer to the time but that she’ll send out an application pack all the same. Fiona holds her breath until the line disconnects, and then whoops out loud.

*

Ironically, Frank’s second reaction is _also_ to wonder about Fiona getting a job, although it’s for entirely different reasons. He sits in the Gallagher kitchen two days later, drinking a beer he snuck from the fridge when Fiona wasn’t looking, and tells her his plan. She glares at him incredulously, wondering how her father still manages to surprise her with the depths he’ll sink to.

“Fuck you, Frank,” she says, weaving around the kitchen as she speaks. She grabs dishes from the table and the breakfast bar and sticks them into hot water in the sink. “I am _not_ getting a job so that I can steal drugs for you.” She collects laundry from the pile under the chute, shoves it into the larger pile in the corner; tries to remember whose turn it is to put it on and then sighs and accepts that she’ll probably end up doing it herself. She hears Frank’s intake of breath as he opens his mouth for another try and she whips round, one of Liam’s t-shirts still in her hand. “I am not stealing drugs for you, period.”

“Aw, c’mon Fiona.” Frank adopts a self-pitying whine, one that she’s heard countless times before and has long since grown immune to. “It’s not a big deal. Just a couple of pills, that’s all. Some Oxy, a few Perco—”

“ _No,_ Frank.”

*

Ian Gallagher doesn’t hear about the clinic until several days later, having been stuck in a dorm room studying furiously for a mid-term, but when it’s over and he calls Lip to tell him how it went, his brother fills him in.

“It’s the talk of the neighbourhood,” Lip tells him. “I’m amazed they’re not queuing up outside the place already.”

Ian’s first thought is that maybe it will take some of the pressure off Fiona, maybe it might help with the cost of his own medication among other things, and he really hopes it will. He’s seen Fiona, sitting up late at night with creases etched into her forehead, dark circles under her eyes and bills spread out on the table in front of her, and he hates how unfair it all is. She had never asked for this, not that any of them had, but her burden is so much heavier than the rest of them. He and Lip help out where they can, but it’s been harder since they’ve gone to college and have their own expenses to cover, and he knows that Debbie and Carl pull as much weight as they can, but somehow his sister just seems to look so much older and more worn every time he sees her. Ian feels like somehow a huge part of that is his fault, his stupid fucked up biology that means he can’t get through the day without some ever-changing cocktail of drugs. He wonders if this clinic will help at all with that, and he really hopes so because lately, even with the medication, he feels like he’s drowning and pulling Fiona and everyone else down too. He seems to trudge through his days on auto-pilot, terrified every time he feels too right or too wrong that the whole cycle is starting again, and afraid to go back to the doctor to ask about his medication in case the next one they want to try is even more expensive than the last. He’s been wondering, lately, if this is what it will be like forever, if it will ever change or if at some point this will just become his new normal, and he’s not sure which possibility scares him more.

*

It’s several weeks after the announcement was first made that Jimmy Lishman and his brother make their way to Chicago. The clinic is almost done, is due to open in a couple of weeks’ time, and it’s been well documented that the Lishmans always ensure to oversee the opening of their clinics personally to ensure that they get off to a good start. They spend the first three days doing recruitment, interviewing for the admin staff last, and the entire Gallagher household is on tenterhooks waiting for Fiona’s return.

When she comes through the door, her face gives nothing away and there’s a moment of silence before Carl blurts out an impatient, “Well?” She holds the face for a few seconds more before breaking into a huge grin, and the kitchen is filled with cheers and whistles.

“Five days a week, mornings,” she tells them. “It’s perfect.”

“What were they like?” Veronica asks her. “Because those boys looked _hot_ on the tv.”

“Hey!” Kev protests from beside her, and she waves her hand at him dismissively.

“Very hot,” Fiona confirms with a laugh as she takes the celebratory beer that Lip is handing her. “The older one was a bit snooty, but the younger one was nice. Friendly.” She smiles a little, and Veronica wolf-whistles. Fiona pokes her tongue out. “Shut up, he’s probably like that with everyone. You can all see for yourselves though, he said he’ll be coming out to the Alibi to check out the local nightlife.”

“Nightlife?!” Lip snorts. “He’ll be in for a shock. He’ll probably end up getting mugged.”

*

Jimmy Lishman sticks to his word and on the following Friday, the packed-out Alibi falls silent at around eight-thirty when he, his brother and a third man walk through its door. Kev falls over himself to welcome them in, offers them a free drink which Jimmy declines in favour of buying a round for the whole bar instead. A rousing cheer is raised, and he finds pats on the back coming from all sides.

He makes polite conversation with everyone, smiling widely and answering even the most banal questions, but his eyes are searching the bar and when they finally find Fiona at the bar, he makes his excuses and weaves over to her. He taps her on the shoulder, offers her another drink, and she bites her lip and smiles as she agrees. Veronica leans over, whispers something in her ear that makes Fiona laugh and swat at her, and then Vee moves down the bar to talk to Kev.

Ian’s sitting at a table in the corner with the rest of his siblings, and he eyes the newcomers curiously. They’re ridiculously out of place—even though they look like they’ve attempted to dress down in jeans and casual shirts they still look hilariously over-dressed. Lishman and his brother seem nice enough, Ian thinks, and Jimmy in particular has a pleasant face with a friendly smile, although they’re both a bit too clean-cut for Ian’s liking.

The third man, on the other hand, is shorter than Jimmy but a little broader, with dark hair and sharp blue eyes, and looks like he has a rough edge despite his tailored clothes. Ian is intrigued; he watches him as Jimmy remains the centre of attention, notes the tension in his shoulders and how he looks like he’d rather be any place other than here. It’s a total contrast to Jimmy’s easy-going friendliness and his brother’s polite-but-stilted conversation.

Gossip spreads quickly around the bar about the Lishmans’ friend, and Ian hears so many different stories that all he knows for sure is that his name is Milkovich and he’s recently inherited his family’s company which means, if Ian believes what each person says to him in a conspiratorial whisper, that he is _filthy_ rich. Ian’s not sure it necessarily does mean that, but the three of them are certainly richer than anyone else in the room, and pretty much every woman in the bar knows it. Several of them approach the Lishmans and although they make conversation with all of them and smiles in all the right places, it’s clear Jimmy only has eyes for Fiona and news quickly spreads that the elder brother, Chip, is married with several small children and apparently takes his vows _very_ seriously. There’s an air of disappointment when that fact sets in, and eventually all the attention turns to their friend, despite the fact that his sour expression never cracks and he pretty much ignores each and every one of them, nursing beer after beer at the bar instead while everyone else has fun around him.

“Do you think they’d find him quite so attractive if he wasn’t so rich?” Ian murmurs to Lip with a grin and Lip smirks.

“Fuck no,” Lip answers with a laugh. “Can’t blame them though, right? Hell, I think even I’d give it a bash if I thought I stood a chance.” Ian stares at him incredulously and Lip feigns innocence. “What? For that kind of money? I’d totally do it.” He pauses, considering. “Well, as long as I could be the one, y’know. Sticking it in.” He makes a lewd gesture with his arm, forming a fist and punching it forward, and Ian snorts and pushes his brother’s shoulder. Lip shoves him back, and they wrestle good-naturedly until Lip manoeuvres Ian down into a headlock and then ruffles his hair affectionately before releasing him. “Later, little bro’. Gonna see if I can distract some of these eyes. Can’t let the rich dudes have all the fun, right?” Ian rolls his eyes and gives him a last, gentle shove and Lip slopes off, eyes tracking the room until he settles on a pretty blonde who’s poking a straw at the last dregs of her drink. Ian watches as Lip turns on the charm, tells a couple of jokes until the girl can’t help but laugh. They move towards the bar together, Lip spinning some sort of line about the importance of hydration, and Ian smiles faintly.

*

He mooches around for a bit, makes jokes with the regulars, smiles cheerfully when Fiona brings Jimmy over to introduce him to everyone, and then eventually finds himself sitting alone at the table, nursing a half-drunk beer. He’s bored now, watching people pair up when he can’t—he ignores the voice in the back of his mind that says _won’t_ because in the Alibi at least, it’s definitely can’t—but although he’d rather not be here, he feels almost obliged to stay until his family is ready to leave, because inevitably at least one of them will need to be half-carried home and he’ll probably be the only one who’s anywhere near sober. Lip’s still at the bar, with a different girl this time, Carl’s got himself into some sort of drinking contest—Ian’s slightly disturbed by the fact that his brother actually seems to be winning—while Debbie is dancing up a storm and Frank is trying to make conversation with the Lishmans’ friend Milkovich. He’s pointedly ignoring Frank’s barely coherent ramblings, eventually going so far as to turn his back on Frank mid-sentence and walk away, walking straight past Ian to stand just to the side of the door to the street. Jimmy has clearly been watching too, from across the room where he’s standing at Fiona’s side; Ian watches as he leans in close to whisper in her ear and then slides his arm from where it’s been resting loosely around her waist, taking care to do it slowly and drag his fingers across her back. She just looks at Jimmy and rolls her eyes, laughing a little, and Ian smiles. It’s nice to see Fiona having fun for a change. She’s smiling wider than Ian’s seen in a long time, her body swaying in time to the tinny beat of the music that’s playing, and Ian wonders if Jimmy realises quite how unusual that is these days.

Jimmy crosses the room and then stops in front of Milkovich, giving him a half-hearted punch to the shoulder. “What’s going on, Mick?” he says, and Ian chances a glance across at them as he listens intently to their conversation. “You’ve been standing around with a long face all night. Come and have some fun with us.”

“Seriously? In a fucking dive like this?” His tone is sneering, and Ian feels his hackles rise a little. He knows full well that the Alibi _is_ a dive, it’s the kind of place that no-one would look twice at, but it’s _theirs._ It’s community and family and _home,_ and he resents the way that it’s being so easily dismissed. He sneaks another look in time to see Jimmy frown at his friend and Milkovich glare right back at him, before gesturing towards Fiona. “Look, you’ve found yourself a pretty girl and I think you probably picked the best out of a _seriously_ bad bunch,” he continues dismissively. “No-one here’s worth my time.”

“Plenty of ladies to choose from, man,” Jimmy says, gesturing to the packed out bar. Milkovich scowls at him; Jimmy laughs and then adds with a good-natured grin, “or guys, y’know. Fiona’s got brothers.” Ian feels his eyes widen in surprise at the implication of the comment and looks down at his drink to hide the smile that’s twitching at the corner of his lips. _Well, well,_ he thinks. _Maybe Lip’s in with a chance after all._

He chances another look up just as Jimmy is following up his comment and twisting his body to point out Lip, then Carl and finally Ian. The other man's eyes follow Jimmy’s finger to each of Ian’s brothers with obvious disinterest and Ian quickly looks away again as Jimmy’s finger points at him. He doesn't see Milkovich’s head turn but he can still pinpoint the exact moment that the other man’s gaze lands on him; it’s like time stops for the briefest second, his skin prickling as eyes burn into him, but it doesn't feel intrusive or creepy like it normally does when guys check him out. He's not quite sure how it feels actually, but it’s something he hasn’t felt for what seems like the longest time and he likes it. He likes that it feels like those eyes have been on him for hours when it’s barely been seconds and he's about to look up despite himself when he feels Milkovich’s gaze track away again. Ian shifts in his seat, suddenly inexplicably uncomfortable, and he strains to hear what Milkovich says next.

“The red-head’s ok, I guess. Still not worth my time, man.” Milkovich takes a long drink from his beer and leans nonchalantly back against the wall, picking at the label on the bottle. “Look, you’re wasting your time Jim. I’m not here to pity-bang some poor kid from the projects, ok?” Ian feels heat creeping up his neck, humiliation curling in his stomach. He’s been called worse before, but somehow this hits harder.

“Go have your fun with whatever-her-name is and leave me the fuck alone, alright?” Milkovich has barely paused for breath, obviously completely unaware that Ian has heard every word. Ian is grateful for that, at least. Jimmy sighs, grips his friend’s shoulder briefly, and then merges back into the crowd, seeking out Fiona again.

Ian doesn’t react at first, is almost stunned at how quickly he was dismissed and how much that rejection hurts. He’s not even sure why it hurts, not really. He had no intention of hooking up tonight, certainly not with Milkovich, and yet… He’s suddenly overcome by an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh; he hides his smirk behind his hand and ducks off towards the bar where Lip’s drinking alone, his latest companion seeming to have vanished. “Not rich enough for her, I guess,” Lip shrugs when Ian asks. “It’s a tough crowd tonight.”

Ian rolls his eyes, orders a fresh beer and then leans in to tell Lip what he’s just overheard. “That fucker!” his brother exclaims after Ian relays the conversation. “Doesn't he know who we are? Fuck, you’re probably the most eligible bachelor in this place!”

“Such a shame I’m only an ‘ok’, then,” Ian jokes as he takes a drink of his beer.

“You never know,” Lip muses. “Get him drunk enough…” Ian waggles his eyebrows suggestively and then they both burst into peals of laughter.

They don't see Mickey Milkovich watching them from across the room, his mouth set in a thin, hard line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so I probably exaggerated the healthcare stuff a little, but it was kind of necessary to set up the story. My friend Emily read it over for me to check that part wasn't too out there, but apologies if it's a little over the top. It probably won't come up much again.
> 
> Title is (according to Wiki) the original working title of Pride and Prejudice.
> 
> allidon.tumblr.com


	2. Chapter 2

Ian’s prediction about drunken family members isn’t too far off. By the time Kev closes up and clears everyone out, Carl is passed out under a table and Frank can barely stand. Lip and Ian take one of Frank’s arms each and half-drag him home, while Kev hoists Carl over his shoulder, threatening the unconscious teen with various acts of revenge should he make the mistake of throwing up on him.

It’s well after two when they pile into the Gallagher kitchen and Hannah, the teenager from down the street who’s babysitting for Liam and the twins, is fast asleep on the sofa with the TV playing some bizarre late night movie to itself. Veronica heads upstairs to check on the kids while Fiona wakes the sitter gently and pays her, and then Kev drops Carl onto the sofa in Hannah’s place and drives her home.

Lip and Ian deposit Frank unceremoniously onto the kitchen floor, roll him onto his side and then sit opposite each other at the table, Ian resting his head on his folded arms. His mind is racing. There’s a clatter from the other side of the kitchen, and he raises his head to see Debbie pouring everyone glasses of water.

“It’s to stop you getting dehydrated,” she says when he asks, giving him a withering look. “Dehydration is the primary cause of hangovers.”

“Well, good luck getting anything into those two Debs,” Lip says, pointing at Frank and then jabbing his thumb behind him towards the living room. “We’ll be lucky if Carl wakes up before tomorrow.”

“He shouldn’t have agreed to that stupid game,” Debbie says disapprovingly, setting Ian and Lip’s glasses down on the table and then handing one to Fiona as she comes back into the room.

“I can’t believe he won,” Ian says, and Debbie glares at him. He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just saying, Debs. The other guy was huge; his alcohol tolerance should’ve been sky high.”

“Two hundred bucks,” Lip says. “Can’t go wrong.” Debbie shifts her glare onto him instead, filling another glass and stomping through to the living room. They hear her talking to Carl, trying to rouse him, and then eventually his voice filters through too. Debbie’s nothing if not persistent.

“It was a good night though,” Fiona says from the doorway, a soft smile on her face. “It was nice to have some fun for a change.”

“Yeeeaaah we all know what kind of fun you’ll be having,” Veronica teases, coming down the stairs into the kitchen, and Fiona smirks a little.

“Maybe,” she says. “He’s nice. You thought he was nice, right?” She looks suddenly anxious, her eyes flashing from Veronica to her brothers and back again.

“Hell yeah,” Veronica says. “He was nice, and rich, and fucking hot. Everything you need, right there.”

There’s a snuffling sound from the floor and Frank suddenly speaks up, sounding half-asleep. “His friend…was _rude._ ”

Fiona looks surprised. “Who, Mickey? I think maybe he’s just shy? Jimmy said they’ve been friends for years, and I’m sure they wouldn’t be if he was such a bad guy.”

“Yeah, shy,” Lip snorts. “You should’ve heard what he said about Ian.” Ian feels colour stain his cheeks as all the eyes in the room fall on him. He’s had another beer since he’d over-heard the conversation between Jimmy and his friend, and the sting of what Milkovich had said has mostly abated, but he still doesn’t want to bring it up. He kicks Lip under the table. Lip carries on, undeterred. “Called him a ‘pity-bang from the projects’.”

Fiona’s face twists in anger. “He said what?!” She turns to Ian, outraged. “Is that really what he said?”

“Yeah,” Ian says, forcing a laugh out. He figures laughing it off is the quickest way to change the subject. “‘ _He’s ok I guess_ ,’” he says, mimicking Milkovich’s deeper voice and the dismissive tone he’d used. “‘ _But still not_ —’” He snorts out another laugh, a more genuine one this time. “‘— _not worth my time._ ’”

Ian and Lip dissolve into laughter again but Fiona still looks enraged. “Not worth his time, huh?”

“It’s fine,” Ian says, and he almost means it. “I didn’t think much of him, either.” He definitely means that.

“Well,” she says. “When he realises his mistake, I hope you fucking turn him down. A pity-bang, my ass.”

“I wouldn’t worry Fiona,” Ian says, with a grin. “I think I can safely promise you that I will _never_ go out with Mickey Milkovich.”

*

Mickey spends the journey back to the Lishmans’ house in sullen silence, tuning out Jimmy’s animated chat as best he can. He’s talking about Fiona, telling Chip various stories that he picked up from the bar, talking about Fiona some more and Mickey finds that he’s really not in the mood for it. He just wants to get back to the house, go to bed and forget about that red-headed kid. Especially forget about that red-headed kid’s arms. And his ass. And the image of him and his brother laughing over some apparently hilarious anecdote, which had left Mickey with the nagging feeling that he was the subject of their ridicule.

He’s suddenly aware of Chip talking to him. “I think you’ll agree with me, Mickey?”

“Huh?” He’s caught off guard, something he hates even with Jimmy and Chip.

Chip frowns at him. “I said, I think you’ll agree with me, that place is the biggest dump we’ve ever been to. Jim, I think you’ve found a whole new low.”

“I thought it was quaint,” Jimmy says defensively. “And the people were lovely.” 

Mickey snorts. “ _Quaint?_ Listen, quaint is little cottages with thatched roofs, or villages with no electricity. Quaint is _not_ some dive bar in the South Side of Chicago where you happened to meet the latest love of your life.”

“Didn’t meet her there,” Jimmy shoots back with a playful grin, and Mickey waves him off.

“Whatever. Still doesn’t make it fucking quaint.”

Jimmy sighs. “I don’t get it, Mick. Why are you so determined to hate everything?”

“Why are _you_ so determined to see the best in everything, huh?” The counter flies back without a pause for thought; it’s an argument that’s been well-hashed out between them in the years that they’ve been friends.

“Well, _I_ think Fiona is lovely, and there’s nothing you can say to change my mind.” Jimmy’s tone is determined, and Mickey just rolls his eyes and watches the streets pass out of the window.

“She’s hot, I’ll give you that,” Chip concedes. “But the rest of them? Her _father_?! The guy probably has more alcohol in his body than blood.”

Mickey silently agrees. He’d mostly ignored the old drunk’s ramblings, but he’d heard enough to know that the Gallagher patriarch wasn’t someone that any of them would want to be further acquainted with.

*

Fiona starts her new job on the following Monday. She gets up an hour earlier than usual, shampoos her hair three times just to be sure, spends almost forty-five minutes blow-drying and straightening it, and then hates it and pulls it into a ponytail instead. It’s marginally better, she supposes. She stares at the smart office wear that she and Veronica had shopped for, and when she puts it on she feels oddly uncomfortable, like a child playing dress-up. She’s suddenly not at all convinced that she can pull this off.

She’s well aware that a large part of the reason Jimmy offered her the job is because he fancied her, she’s not stupid enough to try and convince herself otherwise, but at the time she’d felt that it had just been an added extra, that she’d interviewed well and shown initiative and made herself look employable. Now, staring at herself in the mirror with her scraped back hair and conservative make-up and sensible earrings, she wonders how she could possibly been so stupid. There is no way she can possibly do this job.

She grips the edge of the dresser so hard that her knuckles turn white, trying to take deep breaths as the panic rises. _You can do this,_ she tells herself. _You’ve done it plenty of times before._

By the time she gets downstairs, the breakfast routine is in full swing without her—Debbie’s got pancakes cooking on the stove-top and Carl’s pouring juice and digging through the clean laundry to find a shirt for Liam. She’s so grateful for them on days like this, so happy that she must have done something right somewhere along the line because the six of them stick together and they take care of each other and muck in without question. _You can do this,_ she tells herself again, and this time she almost believes it.

Debbie looks up then, noticing Fiona standing on the bottom step, and she grins. “Figured you’d be distracted today,” she says, shaking the pan a little. “Pancakes?”

*

She settles into the job quicker than she could have imagined, finds this kind of thing second nature. She files and she organises and she figures out the computer system and it feels _good._

She doesn’t see Jimmy until her fourth day, by which time she’s feeling fairly confident about her performance. It’s mid-morning, and she’s in the middle of a phone call with a particularly demanding patient who isn’t happy with any of the appointments she’s offering him, when he plants himself in front of her desk. She makes the mistake of looking up just as the guy on the phone finishes the long, meandering explanation of why next Monday just doesn’t work for him, and Fiona is so distracted by Jimmy’s face that she forgets she’s supposed to respond.

“Uh, Miss? Miss?”

“Right, sorry sir,” she says quickly, and she tucks the handset between her shoulder and ear, holds her finger up at Jimmy, and starts tapping through the appointment schedule again. “Well, I have one on Tuesday, at 4.30?”

“No, I can’t do Tuesday evening, that’s bowling night and I…” He goes off again, telling her long it takes to get to the alley on the L and she tunes him out, chancing another look up at Jimmy. He can obviously hear every word because he’s trying to suppress a laugh, his lips pressed together in amusement, and then he leans over and hits the disconnect button. She’s too shocked to speak for a moment, not quite believing that Jimmy Lishman, her _boss,_ just hung up on a fucking patient.

“Guy sounded like an ass,” he says, and she bursts out laughing.

“Yeah, he kinda was,” she admits. “That was the fourth appointment I’ve offered him.”

“Well,” Jimmy says, thoughtfully, like this is some huge mystery they’re solving together. “Maybe he’s secretly terrified of doctors?”

She laughs again. “Maybe,” she says. “Either that or one of my brothers put him up to it as a joke. Wouldn’t put it past them.”

He chuckles. “Sounds like the brotherly thing to do,” he says. “The first day of my residency, Chip got one of his college buddies to turn up at the ER with the most ridiculous list of symptoms. I was freaking out, had no idea what was wrong with him and too embarrassed to go ask for help.” He starts reeling off the symptom list, mimicking exactly how his brother’s friend had acted as he’d added each one, and she’s having so much fun that before she know it it’s one-fifteen and her shift’s almost over.

“Have dinner with me tonight?” he asks, and she’s laughing so hard that she doesn’t even think about her answer before she agrees.

*

The restaurant they go to that evening is so far removed from her normal life that she has to pinch herself; the waiters are all in black tie and standing straight, shoulders back with elbows pointing out at sharp angles, half the items on the menu are unpronounceable and the wine Jimmy orders costs more than she gets paid in a week. She’s so nervous that she downs the first glass of wine in almost one mouthful and then chokes, her cheeks burning. She feels awkward and out of place, sits stiffly in the seat and tries to work out which fork to use when and where to put her napkin and which topics of conversation are suitable for somewhere like this. Everything she says sounds stilted and false, and suddenly all she wants is to go home and take this stupid dress off.

“Sorry,” Jimmy says in the car on the way home. “Too much, right?”

“Maybe a little,” she says apologetically, offering him a little half-smile.

“I guess I just wanted to impress you,” he says. “I’ll tone it down next time, I promise.”

“Next time, huh?” she teases, and the half-smile becomes a real one.

He looks across at her, frowning. “Well, I mean. If you wanted to…”

She shrugs, acts casual. “Well, I suppose I could try and fit you in,” she says, and he laughs.

“Good,” he says. “Good.”

*

It becomes a regular thing, although she doesn’t let herself think of it that way. He’s as good as his word, tones it down—it still feels toned-up to her, but it’s at a level she can cope with and actually starts to enjoy—and she starts to relax again and enjoy his company. He really is a nice guy, she realises, kind and funny and well aware of how lucky he is. He explains to her, one night in an upmarket bar, that the free clinics initiative had been his idea, how he’d been fourteen and watched a documentary about healthcare and it had been the first time he realised that so many people couldn’t afford any. “I went and asked my dad why,” he says. “And he said it was just the way things were. I don’t accept that.”

She likes him a lot and that scares her, because liking leads to caring and caring leads to love and she learned a long time ago that love is a word used to excuse people hurting you. Monica loved her and Frank loved her and so many men she can’t even count loved her but they all hurt her or left her or both and she’s stopped letting herself hope for anything more. So she smiles and she laughs and she enjoys the fancy restaurants and exclusive nightclubs that he takes her to, but she reminds herself that it’s temporary, that he will leave sooner or later, and she refuses to let herself feel.

They’re in the backseat of his car—some impressive, fancy kind that Carl had almost swooned over the first time he parked it outside their house—when she first realises that maybe she wasn’t being as clever as she thought she was.  They’re parked beside the lake, ostensibly to enjoy the view although they both knew that the view probably wouldn’t get much of a look-in, and she’s on top of him, her skirt hitched up around her hips, her movements fast and frenzied. He keeps trying to slow her down, holding her tightly against him and thrusting up into her instead, and it’s like a battle of wills between them, her pulling back and speeding up and then him pulling her close again and kissing her, soft and gentle with his hand in her hair. There’s a flutter in her stomach that she’s trying to ignore, and then he pulls away just enough that she can see the look in his eyes. His pupils are dilated, although she’s seen his eyes darker, and there’s something else there besides lust.

“Fiona—” he starts to say, his voice hoarse, and panic rises in her throat.

“Shut up,” she says, and pushes him back against the seat, buries her head in the crook of his shoulder and then she’s moving again, hard and fast. He doesn’t stop her this time, gasping against her ear as he gets closer, and she’s glad. She doesn’t want to think about this right now. She bites down on his shoulder when she comes, swallows the noise that she almost made, and then he thrusts up once, twice, and he’s coming too and she sags against him.

They stay there for a few minutes, heavy breathing the only noise between them, and then she feels him inhale like he’s about to speak. She gets in first. “We should be getting back,” she says softly, with a hint of regret.

He doesn’t argue, just nods and pushes her hair back off her face and places a chaste kiss on her lips, and then she slides out of his lap, rakes around for her underwear and pulls her skirt back down while he pulls off the condom, tying it in a knot, and zips his trousers back up. He doesn’t try to talk again.

She lets his hand rest on her thigh as he drives her home, and for the next two days all she can think about is what he might have been about to say.

*

“He probably just wanted to tell you that his leg was cramping up,” Veronica jokes when Fiona finally tells her what’s been on her mind. They’re drinking coffee in Fiona’s kitchen, and Fiona is quieter than usual, quiet enough that her friend had badgered her until she’d finally given in. She barely cracks a smile at Veronica’s quip, her eyebrows pulled together in a frown. “What are you so afraid of,” Veronica asks, and her face is suddenly serious. “That he might actually like you?”

“No,” Fiona says, but she sounds unconvincing even to herself. “I don’t know. Maybe?”

“Would it really be such a bad thing if he did?”

_Yes,_ Fiona thinks, but she doesn’t answer, just stares into her coffee instead.

“ _Fiona,_ ” Veronica says. “He’s a nice guy. You deserve this. You gotta let someone in, sometime right? Why not him?”

“Because…” Fiona doesn’t even know how to explain it. Because he _is_ a nice guy. Because she might actually like him. Because he doesn’t belong here and he’s going to realise that at some point, get bored of his little vacation in the South Side, go back to his penthouse in New York and his fancy office at his family’s firm and start planning another clinic somewhere else. Because ‘enjoying it while it lasts’ is kind of dependent on her _not_ caring. “I’ve got the kids to worry about,” she says instead. It’s a handy excuse. “I’m not looking for anything serious or—”

Veronica cuts her off with a withering look. “Kids my ass,” she says. “Lip and Ian are at college more than they are here.”

“They’ll be back at the weekend for the summer,” Fiona says. “And Lip’s finished for good.” Veronica rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, and they can take care of their own asses. Same goes for Debbie and Carl.” Fiona opens her mouth and Veronica holds her hand up. “No. The only kid you got left is Liam, and soon enough he won’t need you either. He’s got five brothers and sisters to look out for him, not just you. It’s about damn time you started thinking about yourself, girl, and stop using those kids as a wall to keep people out.”

Fiona hates it when Veronica’s right.

*

Ian and Lip come home that weekend, with bags full of dirty laundry and summer plans that actually sound responsible, instead of reminiscent of their teenage years stealing lasers and selling weed out of an ice cream van. Fiona’s sort of proud and wistful all at once. Lip’s picking up some casual work while he looks for an internship, hopefully one that will lead to a proper job—“finally start pulling my weight,” he says to Fiona—and Ian’s got three summer jobs lined up. Between the three of them, and Debbie and Carl’s contributions, the squirrel fund is bulging by the second week of their stay. It’s a nice feeling, but Fiona can’t seem to drop the habit of cutting coupons and shopping for the cheapest food she can find. _Next week,_ she thinks. _Next week we’ll splash out. When we’ve saved another $500. Another $1000._

The third week after the boys come home, there’s a barbecue on an abandoned patch of land next to the L tracks. No-one’s really sure whose idea it is first but it spirals and by mid-morning on a hot, sweaty Saturday, the waste ground has been filled with trestle tables and foldable chairs. Kev's donated several large kegs of beer and there are numerous ice-filled bins with booze and soft drinks, along with multiple grills—everyone seems to have brought their own—and enough food to feed all of Canaryville for a week. This was the kind of shit the community all participated in, and they did it better than anyone else.

The Gallaghers are already there when the Lishman party arrives. Ian hasn’t seen any of them since that first night in the Alibi and he’s glad, if he’s honest. He feels like they’re from another world, one that doesn’t have any place trying to mesh with his own. He watches them pull up in their fancy car, step out in their fancy preppy clothes and designer sunglasses, looking like they’ve been ripped out of some stupid fashion magazine, and it only makes that thought firmer in his mind. They didn’t belong here. Jimmy pops the trunk open, chatting animatedly to his brother, and then they turn to the field and start to cross to where the tables are. Jimmy and Chip are each bearing a crateful of fancy shit that Ian is pretty sure no-one will touch, and Mickey has a cooler, filled with bottled beer by the looks of it. Once again, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere than here and Ian half-wonders if the alcohol he’s carrying is all for himself.

Kev’s over to welcome them in an instant, directing them to the table where Veronica is laying out the food. Once they’ve deposited the crates he shakes all of their hands enthusiastically, a huge, genuine smile on his face, and waves his arm out to the gathering, telling them to mingle. Jimmy’s just as jovial as Kev is, makes his rounds greeting all the people he met at the Alibi while Chip and Mickey load up plates from the food that they brought, take beers from Mickey’s cooler and stand awkwardly to eat rather than take a seat. It irrationally annoys Ian, feels like they’re placing themselves above everyone else, as if the food and drink and people here aren’t good enough for them. _They probably aren’t,_ he thinks, and it annoys him even more.

*

He and Lip are sitting a short while later, loaded down paper plates and cheap plastic cups of beer in hand, watching Fiona and Jimmy as they swipe food off each others’ plates and laugh.

“Seems to be going well,” Lip comments.

“Yeah,” Ian agrees, picking at the food on his plate with not much intention of actually eating. “She seems to like him a lot.”

“Well, she could maybe try showing it a little,” Lip muses. “She’s hardly breaking out the big guns.”

Ian laughs, and then the laughter fades as he realises that Lip is deadly serious. “Really?” he says, his tone sceptical.

“What?” Lip is unapologetic. “Look, he’s a nice guy right? He’s kind to her and he takes her places and he’s—”

“Rich?” Ian says dryly.

“That’s not what I was gonna say,” Lip insists. “But yeah, he’s got money. He’d take care of her.”

“She can take care of herself,” Ian points out. “And she barely fucking knows him.”

“It’s been what, six weeks? And Debbie says they go out like two or three times a week. She’s gotta know him pretty well by now.”

“Six weeks is nothing,” Ian says. “She went out with that Dave guy for almost a year, and she never knew he’d been cheating on her the whole time.”

“It’s enough for her to stake a claim at least.” Lip sounds thoughtful now, his eyes still fixed on his older sister.

Ian stares at Lip. “You sound like Frank.” Lip glares at him, but Ian’s unapologetic. “I’m serious. You’re talking like him, all this talk of marrying the rich guy and staking claims on people. Maybe she doesn’t _want_ to marry Jimmy? Maybe he doesn’t want to marry her? He’s a person, not a prize in a raffle.”

Lip shrugs. “It’s the best odds she’s ever gonna get.”

“Jesus,” Ian says. “It’s not the fucking 1800s. She doesn’t need to find some rich guy to bail her out. Give her a chance to figure it out for herself.”

“Hey, I’m just saying,” Lip says. “She seems to like him is all. She could do a hell of a lot worse.”

Ian doesn’t answer, just looks back at Fiona. She _could_ do a lot worse, he supposes, but maybe she could do better, or maybe she was fine with things as they were. He figures she’ll deal with it in her own time. He’s not sure where Lip’s coming from at all, why he seems suddenly so eager to marry Fiona off. It strikes him as thoroughly odd.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, and Ian people watches. Everyone seems to be having a great time, they’re all some degree of drunk or on their way there, and someone’s playing dance music from a souped-up sound system in one of the cars; he spots Debbie in the thick of the dancers, red hair flying as she commands the attention of a good half-a-dozen men, most of whom are, in Ian’s older-brother opinion, far too old for her. He wonders how she and Carl grew up so suddenly, feels like maybe he blinked and missed a couple of years. In some ways, he supposes that he did.

He looks away, keen to banish the path his thoughts are going on, and immediately his eyes pick out Frank instead. His father has taken up residence beside one of the kegs, of course, and is regaling anyone who’ll listen with tales of how his daughter has struck lucky; Ian can hear and lip-read enough to get the gist of the bragging and the self-congratulation, and he cringes.

“That Milkovich dude is staring at you,” Lip says, suddenly.

Ian looks up automatically, his eyes tracking across to where Mickey is standing. He’s alone now—Ian wonders where Chip’s gone—and Ian sees that Lip is right; although the other man averts his eyes quickly it’s clear that he _was_ looking over at them. Ian frowns in a strange mixture of confusion and annoyance, and turns back to Lip. “No idea why,” he says. “Maybe he’s trying to intimidate us?” Lip shrugs. “I wish he hadn’t bothered coming,” Ian says. “He brings the mood down.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Lip says. “Looks more like he’s at a fucking funeral.”

Ian hums in response, eyes still tracking the field until he finds Carl who is…about to put on an impromptu fireworks show. Of course he is. Ian sighs, pulls himself up straight in his chair and gestures towards Carl. Lip rolls his eyes, and they stand in unison, ready to double-team their kid brother before he causes someone—probably himself—some serious damage.

*

Lip circles round to the left and Ian moves to the right in hopes that they can catch Carl from either side before he notices them approaching. They move almost in parallel to each other, until they’re almost halfway there and suddenly he hears Kev calling his name, just as he grabs his arm and pulls him off his path. Ian turns as Kev tugs at him, and finds himself face-to-face with Mickey Milkovich.

It’s the first time Ian’s seen him up close and he has to take a minute because, to Mickey's credit, he’s good-looking. Really good-looking. He looks him up and down, takes in well-defined arm muscles that he probably got from a gym instead of pull-ups in a doorway, notes the way that his clothes hug his body in all the right places, lingers over slim, muscular legs. He’s distracted by the movement as Mickey flexes his fingers, and Ian has that thought again about rough edges, because Mickey’s got that look about him that you might never be sure if he’s going to kiss you or punch you in the face. Right now, Ian almost wants to punch _him_ in the face because all he can hear is _pity-bang_ and he really wishes the guy wasn’t so attractive.

“Ian, did you meet Mickey yet?” Kev’s saying, but Ian’s too busy fixing the strongest glare he can muster on the shorter man. “I was just saying, he’s not gonna meet anyone if he doesn’t mingle, right? Mickey, this is Ian, Fiona’s brother.”

Mickey nods at him, and Ian sets his jaw and then offers the slightest incline of his head in response. He notices that Mickey looks about as uncomfortable as Ian feels, and he gets a sliver of satisfaction from that. _Good,_ he thinks. _Serves you right._

Kev’s still talking, trying to get them to strike up a conversation, and Ian tries to edge away only for Kev to reel him back in. “Hey, Ian just a couple of minutes, right? Can’t be letting our guests stand around alone.” Ian cringes at the word ‘guests’, is about to make his excuses and explain about Carl, when Mickey suddenly speaks.

“You, uh, you want a beer?” He’s chewing on his lip a little as he asks the question, gesturing to the cooler at his feet, flicking his eyes up to make contact with Ian’s just as he finishes the question. Ian’s struck by how bright they are, close-up like this and reflecting the sunlight.

He’s lost for words for a second, not quite sure how to respond. “No,” he says shortly. “No thanks, I need to go and deal with...” He gestures vaguely in the direction he’d been walking towards Carl, wondering if Lip’s gotten to him yet. Mickey shrugs, looking disinterested again, and Ian turns and walks swiftly away. He can feel Mickey’s eyes burning into his back as he goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is a little Fiona-heavy, mostly because it's necessary for the story later on, but also because I started writing her part and then couldn't find a place to stop so it turned into a huge part. From the next chapter on it'll probably be mostly Ian's POV.


	3. Chapter 3

Ian spends the first half of the following week strangely on edge, like there’s something bothering him but he can’t quite put his finger on what it is. He wakes up two hours early on Sunday, mind racing, but instead of getting up he stays determinedly in bed, staring at the ceiling. It’s not a problem if he doesn’t get up, he tells himself as he wills his leg to stop twitching. It’s just a blip.

His mind is connecting dots that shouldn’t match, connecting _twink_ to _pity-bang_ and faceless old men to Mickey Milkovich, and then it’s finding images of Mickey looking up at him from under his eyelashes while he offers him a beer and Ian’s really not sure what to make of any of it. All he knows is that he dislikes Mickey _intensely,_ feels like he judges everything around him unfairly and by his own, ridiculously high standards, and Ian’s not sure he’s ever met anyone quite as stand-offish before.

He gets up at six, like he does every day, and starts his routine. He takes his meds, grabs a shower before everyone else starts pounding at the door and then he goes for a run. It isn’t until afterwards that he realises that he forgot to eat breakfast first.

He finds something grounding in running, something in the way that his feet connect with the ground as they pound against it that helps anchor him down. He’s onto the fourth mile of his run when he finally feels it, that sense of being attached to solid ground again, that feeling where the world slots into place. It’s twice as long as it usually takes and he resents it, feels like he needs to run twice as long to make up for it. It can go too far the other way, and he's well aware that when he starts to push himself further, harder, faster, that it's probably not a good thing, but right now he's not sure he even cares. There's too many thoughts in his head, intrusive and taking over, and as he runs he pushes them out, stamps them down with every step, leaves them behind.

*

Ian’s supposed to have a routine, and for the rest of the week he sticks to it even more rigidly than usual. It’s finely tuned, has been tampered with and refined until he got to this point, and now he clings to it like a safety blanket, with the belief that by sheer force of will he’ll work through this before it escalates.

Four days a week, he works at a McDonald’s on the North Side, ten ‘til four. It’s easy enough, but exhausting, dashing back and forth. He’s pretty certain that he flips burgers in his sleep, it’s become so ingrained in him. He doesn’t mind it though, the people there are good to joke around with and they don’t ask questions.

It’s Friday, and he’s an hour into his third shift of the week when Joe, his shift manager, brings over a pair of new recruits that Ian can tell straight away are management trainees. They’re kitted out far too well to be working there, even in management, and Ian knows that after one shift in the kitchen they’ll rethink their wardrobe. Joe introduces them as Robbie and Jess, and Ian nods and makes nice, and then Joe makes the predicted request for Ian to train them in the kitchen. Ian agrees easily, mostly because it makes a change from the usual routine and he’s sick of everything, everywhere being stuck in a routine.

He puts on his best ‘model employee’ act, explains to them at length the safety procedures and the hygiene regulations and what needs cleaned when, and they take it all in, nodding and smiling. Jess actually takes notes in a spiral bound notepad that she clearly bought for the purpose, while Robbie just watches Ian, nodding carefully and grinning every time Ian makes the same lame, tired jokes that were peddled to him in his own training.

When they finally start actually preparing food, Ian decides that Jess probably won’t last the month. She does everything at arms length, turns up her nose at the smell of grease that permeates the kitchen, grips everything between pinched fingers as if she thinks it might permeate her too if she touches too much. Robbie’s harder to make a guess at though; there’s a sort of roguish charm to him and he tackles everything with boyish enthusiasm, full of wide grins and easy conversation. Ian finds he chats back, and laughs even, with an ease he hasn’t felt since…well, for a long time. It’s a nice feeling, actually. He thinks that maybe he’s missed it a little.

*

When he gets home that evening, Lip is out with some girl or another and Fiona’s getting ready for a date with Jimmy. He almost collides with her as she comes out of the bathroom, still wet and wrapped in a towel, and he notes that she’s even tenser than usual.

“You ok, Fi?” he asks her, reaching out and squeezing her shoulder as she turns towards her room.

“Huh?” She turns back, clearly distracted, and then gives him a half-smile. “Yeah, I’m good,” she says. He narrows his eyes at her, and she sighs. “Just…well, what do you think of Jimmy?”

Ian’s surprised she’s asking, but he answers her as honestly as he can. “He seems like a good guy,” he says, a little hesitant. “I mean, you like him, right? That’s what matters.”

She nods thoughtfully, and then smiles, big and bright. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah I do. He’s nice, and funny, and he makes me feel good.” She pauses, leans against the wall. “Lip thinks I’m holding back too much.”

Ian frowns. _Fucking Lip_. “Well,” he says. “What do _you_ think?”

She sighs. “Maybe I am? I don’t know. I just…what if it doesn’t work out, you know?”

“Well I guess you just gotta take that risk, right?” he says. “If you like him, like really like him, then you should go for it. And hey,” he adds, grinning widely. “If he hurts you, me and Lip will kill him for you.”

She laughs at that, suddenly reaches for him and pulls him into a hug. “I don’t know what I’d do without you guys,” she whispers in his ear, her voice cracking a little.

“We're a team, right?” he says as he hugs her back. “This is just what we do.” He releases her, giving her a gentle push down the hall. “Go on, get ready” he says. “And take your time, I’ll fix dinner.”

He makes macaroni for dinner, alternating between stirring the pot and helping Carl with a book report he’s supposed to do over the summer to help get his grade up, and then the four younger siblings sit down to eat together at the table. Debbie is in the middle of a story about some guy one of her friends has been seeing when Jimmy arrives, and he hangs out in the kitchen with them for a good twenty minutes while Fiona finishes getting ready. Ian finds himself warming towards the other man; Jimmy’s a good guy, funny and kind-hearted, and he wonders if maybe Lip’s right and this one might be a keeper. When Fiona comes down the stairs, dressed in a tight red dress with her hair around her shoulders, Jimmy’s face lights up like nothing Ian’s ever seen. He thinks he’d do pretty much anything to have someone look at him like that.

*

Fiona calls him a little after seven the next morning, her voice a little groggy like she just woke up.

“Hey,” she says. “I’m so sorry, I fell asleep at Jimmy’s.”

“It’s no big deal,” he says, and he means it. This is a step forward, and he’s pleased for her. “Lip stayed out too. You ok?”

“Yeah,” she says, although she sounds a little unsure. “Yeah, I’m good. Um, Jimmy was asking if I could maybe stay for a few days?”

He laughs. “What are you asking me for?”

He can feel her frowning at him over the phone. “I just don’t want to dump everything on you and Lip,” she says. “I can come home if you need me to.” She sounds unsure, and Ian wonders if maybe she’s hoping he’ll tell her to come back.

“We’ll be fine,” he tells her instead. “You want me to bring you some stuff?”

“Yeah, if you wouldn’t mind?” Her voice is a little brighter now, like she’s relaxed a little. “Just some clothes and stuff? Oh, and my cell phone charger?”

“No problem,” he tells her, and finds a scrap of paper to note down the address on. “I’m at work ‘til four, so it’ll be after that.”

“Thanks, Ian,” she says. “I really appreciate it.”

*

His shift that day is possibly one of the best days he’s had there. It’s busy but not overly so, and Robbie and Jess are back, wearing less expensive clothes, as Ian predicted. Ian and Robbie chat the shift away easily enough; they crack jokes and talk sports and debate some stupid shit they hear on the news over the crackly radio. They swap music recommendations on their smoke break, Ian tending towards indie rock and Robbie towards harder stuff, and they listen through the tinny speakers on their phones. It’s fun, and Ian feels his guard slip a little further.

He’s a little late leaving, and he grabs the bus to Jimmy’s just as it’s about to pull away, realising ten minutes in that it’s the wrong route. He hops off, checks the GPS on his phone, and decides he might as well walk rather than hang around for another bus.

He regrets the decision barely two minutes later, when the first fat raindrop falls. He’s wearing nothing but jeans and a thin t-shirt, and when the downpour really starts, he’s soaked through within minutes. He quickens his pace, breaking into a half jog and then a run, his head tucked down to stop the rain hitting his face. He rounds the corner into Jimmy’s street, looks up to check the house numbers and then sprints for the last few yards. He knocks, waits, and then knocks again harder.

There’s a muffled shout from inside, the rattling of keys, and then Mickey opens the door.

*

Mickey is having a really shitty day, mostly. He’s been video conferencing all day, which he hates more than actual conferencing, and he’s got two subsidiary companies that are probably about to go bust. He’s pretty sure he’s not cut out for this CEO business, it’s not his thing at all, but he can hear his dad’s voice in his head, talking about how this company is his legacy and how important the family name is and how Milkoviches never back down, and so he grits his teeth and makes the calls he needs to make, plays nice for the shareholders, pretends like he doesn’t hate all of this and long for the time when he had dreams of his own.

He’s just finishing up a scathing email to the director of a third, failing subsidiary when he hears the knock at the door. He ignores it, given that he’s busy and it’s not even his fucking house, but it’s insistent and getting louder and eventually he shoves his chair away from the desk and stomps downstairs, yelling for Jimmy as he goes. He guesses that his friend is holed up somewhere in the house with Fiona, and he makes a mental note to give that whole situation some thought later on. It’s getting too serious for Mickey’s liking, and the last thing he wants is for his friend’s good nature to be taken advantage of, even if the guy is too lazy to open his own front door. He fumbles the keys as he thinks and then yanks the door open with far more force that is necessary, only for his stomach to clench when he finds Ian Gallagher standing in front of him on the doorstep, dripping wet and skin near enough gleaming.

His hair is wet, darkened by the rain, and it’s hanging in his eyes, dripping down over his face, his cheeks red and shiny. Ian swipes at it, clearly annoyed, and then Mickey catches his eyes and he can’t look away. They’re beautiful, green flecked through with hazel, but he knew that already; now they’re brightened by exercise and they’re staring straight back at him and there’s rain clinging to his eyelashes. Ian’s towering over him, glaring down at him like Mickey’s committed some huge crime, and all he wants to do is make a sarcastic comment and get the hell out of there but he can’t take his eyes off the taller man’s face.

“Mickey,” Ian says shortly, by way of a greeting.

Mickey acknowledges it with a quick movement of his eyebrows, and Ian shakes his head in what Mickey presumes to be annoyance—although he has no clue why Ian might be mad at him—and then shifts awkwardly, looks over his shoulder at the street before continuing. “I, um, I came to see Fiona. I’ve got some stuff she needed.” There’s an overnight bag in his hand that he jiggles a little, as if to prove the point.

“And what, you ran all the way here? In the _rain_?” It comes out sharper than he intends, like an accusation, and Ian frowns at him.

“No,” he says drily. “I just go everywhere dripping wet like this.” He sighs and drops the frown. “I took the bus and got caught in the rain.” He gives Mickey a pointed glare, and Mickey steps back, waving his arm out in a sarcastic welcome gesture.

Ian gives a terse nod in response, the frown returning, and then moves past him into the hallway. Mickey grips the door handle, unable to look away from the way that Ian’s wet clothes are clinging to every contour of his body. He swallows hard, so hard that he can almost hear it, and he’s convinced Ian must have too because Ian chooses just that moment to turn and look at him, frown still etched onto his face.

“So, is Fiona here?” he asks, and just at that moment Jimmy and Fiona emerge from the back of the house. They’re giggling a little, hair all messed up, and Jimmy’s shirt is buttoned up wrong and Fiona’s is inside out. Mickey makes a mental note never to sit on the sofa in that room again.

He scowls as they greet Ian with big smiles, slams the door shut and marches back up the stairs to finish his email. They’ll have a whole houseful of Gallaghers at this rate, he thinks crossly, and then finds his mind wandering back to Ian’s back muscles under his wet t-shirt. His cock, fucking treacherous body part that it is, apparently likes that image and his scowl deepens. He sends the email and then takes a cold shower, standing under the spray until his teeth are near enough chattering and he's covered in goose pimples. It doesn't help at all.

*

Jimmy insists Ian stay for dinner, and after the third time Ian tries to say, “no, it’s fine, really,” he gives in and accepts the offer. He takes the hot shower Jimmy offers too, while his clothes are drying.

The Lishmans’ house is like nothing he could have imagined, light and airy with luxurious furnishings, and the shower Jimmy directs him to in his own en-suite is no exception. The water goes hotter than theirs ever gets at home, and the pressure is a revelation. It's possibly the most invigorating shower he's ever experienced and he stays under the water for far too long, letting his mind wander.

When he gets out, his clothes are still nowhere to be seen, so he dries himself off and wraps the huge towel Jimmy had produced from a cupboard around his waist. He slips out of the bedroom, and pads down the hallway towards the stairs, only to come face to face with Mickey as he exits his own bedroom. Ian stops dead, suddenly aware of his nakedness and not at all sure what to do, and Mickey glares at him hard, as if he’s done something wrong. Ian glares back, because he fucking hasn’t actually and it’s really annoying that Mickey’s acting like he has, and then he notices that Mickey’s hair is damp and that he’s changed his clothes from the suit and tie he’d been wearing when he opened the door to a more casual shirt, dark blue and soft looking, and well-fitting dark jeans. He looks…really fucking good actually, and Ian has to will himself not to follow that thought train any further. Mickey’s eyes flick down Ian’s body, and then back up to his face, and then down again, and then he pulls himself up a little taller, throws his shoulders back. He raises his eyebrows, nods and then turns towards the stairs. Ian can’t help but watch him go.

*

Ian gives it a couple of minutes before he goes downstairs himself, and when he does he finds Fiona alone, curled up on the sofa. “Hey,” she says, looking up from the book she’s reading. “Shit, you all done? I’ll see if your clothes are ready.”

He pads after her, marvelling at the kitchen as they pass through on their way to the utility room, and when she stops in front of the dryer he nudges her playfully.

“Y’know,” he says, nodding back towards the kitchen. “I think your Jimmy might be a keeper after all.”

She shifts uncomfortably as she pulls his clothes out, and checks to make sure they’re dry. “He's not _my_ Jimmy,” she says finally, as she hands them over.

“Oh, I dunno,” Ian counters. “I think maybe he might be. I mean, that’s why you’re here, right? Taking the risk?”

“I guess so,” she says softly, leaning against the counter. “But it doesn’t make him mine.”

“Not yet,” Ian says, pulling his boxers on under the towel. “But eventually?”

“Yeah,” she says, and she smiles a little. “Yeah, I think maybe eventually.”

*

Mickey arrives at the table just as dinner is served and he takes the seat opposite Ian, seemingly without thinking because the minute he looks up and sees the redhead opposite him, he averts his gaze again, staring down at the table instead. Ian feels that same irritated feeling as before, because he's got no idea what he's ever done to make Mickey dislike him so much as he clearly does.

Jimmy chatters away as if the growing animosity isn't obvious, asks Ian about school and what he's majoring in and what he wants to do after. Ian's uncomfortable as he answers, because much as he’s got this a new plan now, with a new set of goals in place, he still longs for the old ones a lot of the time. He still feels the army deep in his bones, and somehow he doesn’t think that anything can ever replace it.

The whole time he's looking at Jimmy, telling him about how he’s studying physiotherapy and hopes to maybe help army veterans eventually, he's pretty sure that Mickey is looking at him. Staring at him, in fact. He can feel that itch that’s growing all too familiar in Mickey’s presence, like his skin is tingling, and he stubbornly avoids looking back at the brunet to check if he’s right.

They're midway through the main course before Mickey speaks, and even then it's barely a sentence in reply to a question from Chip about his sister. Chip asks how she’s doing, and Mickey says, “She’s fine. Graduated, got a job.”

“Excellent,” Chip beams. “So many young people these days are so aimless, changing their plans all the time. It’s so important for young people to have ambition in life, to have _goals_ to achieve.”

Mickey’s thoughtful for a moment. “Yeah,” he says finally. “But you gotta be able to take a new path sometimes too.” He looks across at Ian then, from under his eyelashes like he did at the barbecue, and Ian’s not sure how to feel about that at all.

“Oh, of course,” Chip says, and Ian has to stifle a laugh. “Yes, flexibility is essential too, if you can’t achieve your original goals.” The laugh dies in Ian’s throat, and is replaced by a hard lump as he looks down at his plate. 

Mickey seems suddenly defensive when he speaks again. “I’d say goals aren’t reasonable if you can’t achieve them,” he says. “If someone aims for something out of their reach, then not achieving it’s their own fault, right?”

Ian looks up sharply, the lump gone and replaced with a surge of anger. “Oh, and you’re perfect then? Without fault?” Ian’s tone is mocking, his eyebrows raised in challenge.

“No such thing,” Mickey says, reaching for the potatoes. They’re within Ian’s reach, but he doesn’t pass them, lets Mickey stand and stretch over the table for them instead. “But yeah, I work hard to avoid…weakness.” It’s an odd pause at the end, before that last word, and Ian wonders over it later, but right now he’s riled up, eager to poke back.

“Right,” he says. “Like, I dunno, vanity? Or pride?”

Mickey frowns. “Vanity’s a fucking waste of time,” he says. “But it’s good to have pride in what you achieve. Not gonna apologise for it.”

Ian snorts, stabbing at a potato probably far too aggressively. _Of course he wouldn’t,_ he thinks.

Mickey spears a carrot with just as much intensity. “Look,” he says, his eyes narrowed as he stares Ian down. “I’ve got enough issues, but I’m not fucking stupid. I know my faults.” He glares at Ian, and Ian doesn’t back down. He matches Mickey’s glare with an intense one of his own, jutting his chin out. Mickey breaks first. “My temper gets the better of me,” he says, flexing his fingers around his cutlery. Ian’s not sure if it’s supposed to be threatening, but he doesn’t care if it is. Mickey’s still talking, and Ian’s still glaring. “It could be called resentful,” Mickey continues, eyes not leaving Ian’s face. “You fuck with me once, you won’t get a chance to do it again.”

Ian chuckles drily, his fork poised halfway to his mouth. “So instead, you just judge people on first impressions.”

Something odd passes across Mickey’s face that Ian doesn’t quite understand, but then the other man shrugs, makes a show of taking a mouthful and chewing slowly before he answers. “You can tell a lot from how you first meet a person.”

“Oh I agree.” Ian’s sawing through his meat now, swift movements that continue long after the cut’s been made. “I mean, someone behaves badly the first time you meet them, they’re probably not worth knowing.” He looks up as he says it, tries to gauge Mickey’s reaction and gets nothing.

Mickey’s staring at Ian’s knife when he answers. “Probably not.”

There’s an awkward throat clearing from the end of the table, and then a scrape as Chip pushes his chair back. “Well,” he says, his voice loud and cheerful in a painfully obvious way. “I’ll just get dessert, shall I?” There’s a mumble of agreement from Fiona and Jimmy, so Chip grabs their empty plates and heads into the kitchen, looking back over his shoulder his shoulder at Ian and Mickey. There’s a stony silence for the rest of the meal, and then Ian makes an excuse about the last bus, turning down Jimmy’s offers of a lift home.

Ian’s shaking when he gets outside, still shaking when he gets on the bus, and it’s only when it drops him off three streets away from home that he feels the anger subside. He has no idea what’s going on, but what he’s sure of now is that Mickey Milkovich is the most arrogant asshole that he’s ever met.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Frank hits the house like a hurricane on the following Friday morning. They’ve barely seen him in the past two weeks, save from the couple of times he was too drunk to move and ended up being dragged home by the police, but he rolls up at seven-thirty to wait for the mail—“it’s disability day,” Debbie reminds Ian—and then invites himself for breakfast when he smells the bacon that Fiona’s frying.

The atmosphere round the table is tense, the way it always is when Frank is there, and there’s an awkward silence until the letterbox clatters and Liam almost knocks his chair over in his haste to grab the post. He comes back with the mail and passes it to Fiona, who quickly dodges away from Frank’s attempts to intercept the handover. She sorts through it, quickly and methodically, piling bills onto the breakfast bar, advertising into the centre of the table for Debbie to check for coupons and then doles out the personal mail. There’s Frank’s cheque, as expected, a couple for Lip—both rejections for jobs he’s applied for, which he waves off with a “didn’t want them anyway,” although Ian thinks he looks more bothered than he shows—and a college prospectus for Carl, which Frank snorts derisively at.

“College,” he says. “Waste of time. That’s not where you’ll be heading, son. Gallaghers don’t need education, we got all we need up here already.” He taps his head with his finger, and Fiona glares at him, taking in Carl’s deflated expression.

“Don't say shit like that to him,” she says, rubbing her hand instinctively over Carl’s head in an attempt at comfort. He ducks away, arms folded stubbornly, and the atmosphere at the table grows even thicker.

“I’ll say whatever I like to my own damn son, Fiona,” Frank retorts, jabbing his fork at her between bites. “Time you kids learned some respect.” Ian wonders if Frank even noticed him and Lip going to college, or that Debbie’s about to go too. _Probably not,_ he thinks. Frank only notices things that affect himself.

The last piece of mail is a handwritten envelope addressed to Frank, and Fiona turns it over curiously before Frank snatches it out of her hand. He squints at it, and then rips it open, dropping the envelope onto the table as he pulls the sheets of paper from inside it. As Frank scans the letter, Ian picks up the envelope, curious despite himself. The paper is thick, obviously expensive, and the handwriting is neat and well-presented. He glances back up at his father, intrigued to find out the identity of the sender. 

Frank’s got a strange smile on his face as he comes to the end of the letter, and he looks up and eyes them all smugly. “Well,” he says, folding the letter with more care than Ian’s ever seen him show anything before. “Looks like your sister is coming to stay.”

There’s a stunned silence for a moment as Frank’s words sink in, and Frank’s smile grows just a little bit.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Fiona’s voice is quiet and measured, but Ian can see from the pinched look on her face that she’s not feeling either of those things. “What sister?”

“ _Your_ sister,” Frank says around a mouthful of bacon. “My _oldest_ daughter. Samantha.” He looks up at Fiona, stares her down as if to say ‘your move’. She opens her mouth to react, but Lip jumps in first.

“Well, she’s not staying here,” he says firmly. “We’ve got enough shit of our own to deal with.”

Frank’s face twists, and Ian knows what’s coming. He jumps up, herds Debbie, Carl and Liam together and pushes them towards the stairs. “Time to get dressed,” he says brightly, and then hisses at Debbie and Carl as they get out of Frank’s earshot, “don’t come down until you know he’s gone.” Debbie nods, grabbing Liam and heading upstairs with him, but Carl resists. “Seriously, bud,” Ian says. “Stay upstairs.” Carl frowns, and Ian tries another tack. “Look, just in case he goes up there, ok? You gotta make sure Debs and Liam are ok.” Carl doesn’t look convinced, glancing back at the table where Frank and Lip are about to come to blows, but then he nods his agreement and heads upstairs behind his siblings.

Ian breathes a sigh of relief, and then turns back to the table. Frank is standing up, chair knocked over behind him, and he’s shouting at Lip as Fiona tries to come in between them.

“This is my fucking house,” he’s shouting, jabbing his finger at them. “I can do whatever I like in _my_ house.”

“ _Your_ house?” Fiona shouts back. “Who do you think _pays_ for this house, Frank? Because it’s sure as shit isn’t you.”

“Excuse me?” Frank’s enraged, and Ian moves round to Frank’s other side. “Well, we can’t all have rich boyfriends bankrolling us, Fiona, some of us have to work hard for what we have, some of us have to take what we can get in life—”

Lip cuts him off. “What? You’re kidding, right? You’re telling us about working for shit? When was the last time you worked a day in your life?”

“Oh that’s right,” Frank says. “Turn this all on me, because it’s all my fault, right? How about you all take some responsibility for yourselves for a change? Why don’t you try being me, huh? You got no idea—”

“Oh, _we’ve_ got no idea?” Lip’s tone is scathing. “Yeah, we’ve got no idea what it’s like to sit on our fucking _ass_ every day drinking ourselves to death because _we_ ”—he gestures between himself and his siblings—“have been taking care of your messes for fucking years.”

Frank lunges at Lip, knocks Fiona down as she tries to stop him, and then collides with the table, plates crashing onto the floor. Ian grabs at him from behind as Lip throws a punch, and the three of them end up tangled together on the floor. Ian manages to twist and pin Frank’s arms down and then Lip sits back, panting.

“Ungrateful little shits,” Frank shouts, as Ian forces him down with a knee to his back. “Everything I’ve done for you and this is how you repay me? Everything—” His voice is muffled as he’s pushed down, and Ian looks up, glances between Fiona and Lip. Fiona nods, looking suddenly tired, and Lip and Ian manhandle Frank out of the back door and down the steps. He’s still hurling obscenities at them, rambling about how unfair they’re being and that they won’t get away with treating him like this and both brothers ignore him as they go back inside and close the door.

Fiona’s already started picking up the plates on the floor when they get back to the kitchen, and Lip bends down to help while Ian heads upstairs to check on the others. He finds Carl sitting on the top step, baseball bat gripped tightly in his hands, his face emotionless. Ian glances past him, sees Debbie getting Liam organised, and sits himself down next to Carl.

“Frank’s gone,” he says, getting no reaction from his brother. “You ok?” Ian asks, concerned and Carl just shrugs, moving the bat from hand to hand.

“Is this about what he said?” Ian asks gently. “About college?” Carl doesn’t respond, but his jaw clenches for the briefest second and Ian knows he’s right. “Just ignore him,” he says softly. “Frank doesn’t know shit, you know that.”

Carl makes a strange huffing sound, and Ian’s not sure if he’s upset or angry. “He’s right,” Carl says. “College is a dumb idea. Not like I’m gonna even get to go.”

“Hey,” Ian says, sharply. “Don’t talk like that, ok? If you wanna go to college, you will.” Carl makes that noise again and Ian suddenly feels so angry at Frank that he clenches his fists, fingers digging painfully into his palms.

“Fiona says you’ve been working really hard this year to pull your grades up?” he says instead, and it’s true; Fiona had told him that on the phone before he came home, said that she’d never seen Carl apply himself to actual school work the way he had the past few months. “Sounds like your teachers were really pleased.”

Something passes over Carl’s face that could almost be pride, but it’s gone as fast as it came and then he’s frowning again. “Still flunking English,” he says, staring down at his knees.

“But that’s what your extra projects are for, right? If you make good grades on those you’ll be fine.” He leans over, drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “English is my best subject, bud. You’re gonna ace those projects, ok?”

“I guess,” Carl says, but he doesn’t sound convinced. He looks somehow both younger and older than his age, Ian thinks, soft and vulnerable in a way that he rarely shows, yet also hardened already in a way that no kid should ever be.

“Look,” Ian jokes awkwardly. “My brain’s all fucked up and they let me in, right? Few bad grades are nothing compared to that.” He nudges Carl’s shoulder with his own, and his brother finally relaxes and grins a little.

“I hate him,” Carl whispers, to no-one in particular, and Ian doesn’t know what to do except to sling a loose arm around Carl’s shoulders and pull him in tight. Carl tenses at the contact, pulls away slightly, but Ian just lets his arm hang there anyway, figuring it says more than words ever could.

*

Ian arrives at work that day with barely a minute to spare, having missed his usual train and having to get the bus instead. He sprints the last two blocks to get there, skidding into the restaurant at 9.59 to an amused look from Robbie.

“Where’s the fire?” he riffs, and Ian grins, panting a little.

“Fuck off,” he says good-naturedly. “Busy morning. Sorry,” he adds, as an after-thought.

Robbie holds his hands up in mock-surrender. “Hey, doesn’t bother me. I'm not your boss yet,” he says, laughing as Ian gives his shoulder a shove on the way past.  

It’s a little after one, the lunchtime rush starting to abate a little, when Mickey arrives at Ian’s register. Ian’s started his welcome spiel before he looks up, and when he does and he sees who his customer is, the words dry in his mouth.

He suddenly feels ridiculously self-conscious, sweating in his cheap polyester uniform and stupid hat, when Mickey’s standing in front of him, his hair gelled back and looking cool and collected in yet another probably-designer suit, and Ian can feel an embarrassed flush seeping into his cheeks.

If Mickey notices Ian’s discomfort, he doesn’t draw attention to the fact; he just nods a greeting and Ian swallows hard, paints on his best ‘how can I help you?’ smile and restarts his lines as if he’s never seen Mickey before in his life. Mickey looks confused, frowning at him and chewing his lip a little, but he shakes it off and opens his mouth to order just as Robbie appears at Ian’s elbow.

“Hey, Ian could you show me...” Robbie tails off, staring at Mickey like he’s seen a ghost.

Mickey stares back, and the look on his face seems nothing short of hatred. They stand like that for much longer than is comfortable, Robbie looking startled and Mickey’s face getting darker and darker, until Ian clears his throat pointedly. Mickey flinches, like he'd forgotten where he was or that anyone else was there, and then with a final glare at Robbie, he turns without a word and walks back out of the door.

Ian turns to Robbie, the question on his tongue, but Robbie’s gone too, the office door swinging behind him.

*

They’re outside later, sharing a cigarette, when Robbie brings it up. 

“Look,” Robbie says, shifting uncomfortably. “About earlier, I—I’m sorry, ok? Didn’t mean to scare that guy off.”

Ian glances across at him, taking a drag on the cigarette. “You know Mickey?”

Robbie looks surprised. “ _You_ know him?”

Ian sighs, rolls his eyes a little. “He’s a friend of my sister’s boyfriend. Total asshole.”

“I don’t think you’ll find a lot of people who share that opinion,” Robbie says softly, lighting another cigarette, taking a drag before passing it over to Ian.

“Really? Cause no-one I know likes him. They all think he’s rude and arrogant, he looks down on all of us.” Ian looks across at him again, weighs his options. “How do you know him?”

Robbie’s quiet for a moment, and Ian’s ready to apologise, to take the question back, but then Robbie starts talking. “We...grew up together. Him and his sister, me and my brother. We were inseparable.”

Ian frowns. “But earlier, the way you looked at each other?”

Robbie laughs, a dry sort of bark, and takes another drag before he continues. “Well, I’d say we’re not inseparable any more. My family…our company got into some financial trouble a few years ago, when the recession hit. Our stocks fell overnight; we had job losses all over the country. It was a really...bad time.” His voice is hoarse, emotional and Ian wants to say something but he’s not sure what, really. Robbie just keeps talking, almost to himself, his voice rising as the story goes on. “I went to Mickey, asked him to help us out, any way that he could. He’d just turned 21, he had access to funds like you can't even imagine. It was just a loan; I would’ve paid him back! But he wouldn’t, said it wasn’t his problem. Called it ‘bad management’ and said I had to sort my own shit out.”

“Fuck,” Ian says, and it doesn’t feel like enough but he can't think of the words to describe his horror at what Robbie’s telling him.

“Yeah,” Robbie says, tapping the ash off the end of his cigarette. “So anyway, the company went bust, of course. Left us on our fucking knees. And so now, instead of running the family business with my dad and my brother like I should be, I’m on the breadline, taking whatever job I can.” He waves up at the restaurant behind him with his cigarette, and then looks at Ian. “Shit, no offence. I mean, you’re not gonna be here forever, right? You’re gonna be a physio or whatever.” He drops his cigarette, grinds it out with the toe of his shoe. “Anyway,” he says. “It is what it is. Just…didn’t expect to see him, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well I doubt he’ll be back,” Ian says. “Don’t worry about that.”

“Oh, I’m not,” Robbie says, his trademark cheeky grin back in place. “He’s the one who should be trying to avoid me. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Good,” Ian says. “I’d hate it if…” he pauses, searching for the right words. “I don’t want you to feel like you can’t hang around,” he says finally, and Robbie laughs.

“Nah,” he says. “I think you’re stuck with me for a while yet. C’mon, let’s get back inside.”

*

Fiona’s sceptical when Ian tells her Robbie’s story later.

“I dunno,” she says. “I mean, I know you hate the guy, and he’s not high on my Christmas card list either, but I never took him as someone so...malicious. I don’t think Jimmy would be such close friends with someone who’d behave like that.”

Ian’s on the crapped out laptop, googling. “It says it right here,” he says. “Worldwide Cup, went into receivership in 2009, went totally bust in 2010. That’s exactly how Robbie said it happened.” He slaps the laptop shut. “And Mickey could’ve stopped it, could’ve helped. And he didn’t.”

“Well,” Fiona says thoughtfully. “I can’t believe I’m defending the guy, but maybe it was too far gone? Companies go bust all the time Ian, and sometimes they just can’t be saved.”

“What, so people just shouldn’t even try?”

“I’m not saying that,” she says, gently. “Just that...you’ve only got one side of the story, ok? Keep an open mind, that's all I’m saying.”

“Well,” Ian says hotly. “I’m not gonna trust Mickey Milkovich over Robbie. And if it’s not true, well then let’s hear Mickey defend himself.”

Fiona sighs, moves around the counter to squeeze at his shoulder. “Look,” she says, her voice a little hesitant. “You and this Robbie guy, is there something—”

“No,” Ian cuts her off defensively, and she gives him her best mom-look. “ _No,_ ” he repeats. “He’s just a friend, _my_ friend, and I believe him, ok?”

“Ok,” she says. “Ok.”

*

Sammi Gallagher arrives a little after two on Monday afternoon, dragging a large suitcase and a sullen looking child along with her. She introduces him as her son, Chuckie, as they make their way into the house where Debbie’s got brownies waiting for them. It’s awkward as anything to begin with, without even Frank there to act as a buffer between them, but Sammi’s loud and lively and she soon manages to draw them into reluctant conversation.

“I work in Washington,” she tells them when Lip asks. “For a senator, Sheila Jackson. I don’t know if you’ve heard of her? I’m sure you have. She’s such…just such a wonderful person, y’know? _Inspirational_.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Fiona’s tone is dry, but Sammi doesn’t seem to notice, beaming at her.

“Oh, Fiona I’m sure you’d love her. She changed my life when she gave me that job. I keep telling her, Senator Jackson you’re an inspiration to women like me. Just shows where you can get to if you work hard enough.”

Fiona rolls her eyes at Ian over Sammi’s head, but their new sister is on a roll now, barely pausing for breath as she regales them with tales of her boss’ policies and advice the senator has given her and how it means she can provide a good quality of life for Chuckie and how she’s so thrilled for the opportunity that she works overtime for free and before they know it over an hour has passed and she’s still going.

“So,” Lip says, jumping in as soon as there’s a break in Sammi’s chatter. “How well do you know Frank?”

“Daddy?” Sammi says, looking confused, and Lip nods. “Well, not too well. I met him a few times maybe ten years ago? But then I met this guy, and I moved out of state and had Chuckie, and then I got work out there and I just never came back, y’know?”

Lip grabs the thread she’s offering, and pulls. “But, you came back now?” he probes.

“Well, yeah,” she says. “Just felt like time, and I wanted Chuckie to meet his grandpa, and I’ve got some other people to see.”

“Well,” Lip says, his voice falsely bright. “We don’t want to keep you then. I can bet where Frank’ll be right now.”

Fiona grabs him as they’re pulling their shoes on, whispering in his ear. “What are you up to?”

“Getting her the fuck out of here before she bores us all to death,” he shoots back. “One look at Frank passed out over the bar of the Alibi and she’ll be back to D.C. before you can blink.”

Frank’s exactly where Lip expects him to be, although he’s probably a lot more sober than either he or Fiona would have expected for four in the afternoon. Sammi lights up when she sees him, bounding across the room with a shriek and grabbing onto him.

“It’s so good to see you, Daddy,” Sammi says, and she hugs him harder than Fiona thinks she or her siblings ever have. Her surprise is only increased when Frank returns the gesture, pulling Sammi to the side of him at the bar and leaving Fiona and Lip standing there, staring blankly at them.

“Guess we know who his favourite is then,” Lip quips, but it falls flat, the confusion evident on his face.

“Fuck him,” Fiona says, turning to leave. “They deserve each other.” She tries not to let on that she’s feeling just as confused as Lip is, a strange kind of hurt that she doesn’t understand. It’s not as if she’s cared what Frank thought of her for a long time, in fact she’d probably take any approval he gave her as an insult, but seeing him huddled next to this strange, new daughter at the bar is making her feel bizarrely jealous and she doesn’t want to see any more of it.

*

“They seem nice, my brothers and sisters,” Sammi says, when they’re midway through their second drink. “You’re very lucky to have such great kids, Dad.”

Frank snorts, downing the rest of his beer and gesturing to Kev for another. “Lucky? Oh yeah, so lucky to have such unappreciative little rats for children, so lucky that they despise me and kick me down at every turn. Threw me out of my own house last week, and not for the first time either. No idea what makes them think they can behave like that, that’s not how _I_ raised them, their fucking mother…” He rambles on, watching Sammi’s reaction out of the corner of his eye. She looks suitably horrified, and a plan starts forming in the back of his mind.

“That’s awful,” she says. “I don’t know why they’d do that to you.”

“I just want to be a proper father to the little ones,” he says sadly. “But Fiona, she won’t let me anywhere near them. It’s such a shame, I miss them so much.” He chances another look at Sammi, wanting to be sure that he picks just the right time to drop the bait. “She thinks she’s better than me. Not like you, Sammi. You understand me, the way a _real_ daughter does.” She preens under his words, smiling widely, and he knows he’s got her right where he wants her. “It’s a fucking conspiracy, that’s what it is. If only those older kids would move out,” he says. “I’d get my fucking house back; get my _kids_ back from Fiona.”

Sammi looks thoughtful. “Well, you know,” she says. “I’ve been thinking of getting an assistant. Senator Jackson, my boss y’know? She keeps telling me that I’m working too hard, that I should be spending more time with Chuckie. I could always…” She pauses, squints at him as if to gauge his reaction. “I could maybe give one of them the job? Fiona seems like she works hard. That would help, right?”

“No,” Frank answers almost too quickly, choking on his beer. “I mean, that’s such a kind thing to do, helping your sister out like that.” She beams again, and he continues. “But she’d never leave the kids, and she’s got some rich fucking asshole on her arm right now. That’s no good. But,” he says, and he makes a show of looking thoughtful. “Lip or Ian, they’d certainly be good options. Lip’s smart, went to some fancy college; and Ian, he’s got discipline. Works hard. Used to be in the army. I’m sure they’d be so glad of the help.”

She smiles at him, wraps her arm round his shoulder and squeezes. “Consider it done.”


	5. Chapter 5

It turns out that Lip’s prediction couldn’t have been any further off the mark. Sammi’s reunion with Frank doesn’t have her on the first flight back to D.C.; in fact, she seems even more eager to get to know her new siblings and wastes no time in settling herself and Chuckie into the Gallagher house.

By Thursday, Ian’s convinced that something fishy is going on. She’s barely left him alone for two days, hanging off his every word and practically tailing him all over the house, and on Wednesday she’d _coincidentally_ turned up at his work. She’d spun a story about visiting friends and needing to feed Chuckie, but it was a step too far for Ian who’s entirely weirded out by the whole thing. If Sammi wasn’t family—and at least ten years his senior—he might have taken it for an over-enthusiastic crush, which is something he’s had experience of with several different girls over the years, but with that off the table he’s pretty clueless as to what’s going on.

The final straw is when, just as he’s leaving work on Friday, she turns up again, minus Chuckie this time, and says that she was in the area and does he feel like keeping her company on the train home. He answers honestly, says he’s going for a drink with Robbie, but somehow she takes it as an invitation and before he knows it, he’s huddled around a tiny bar table with his friend and his new sister. It’s not really how he envisaged spending the evening.

She barely shuts up for the first forty-five minutes, chatters away to Robbie about her boss and her job and how much she loves D.C.—all things which Ian has heard already five times over—and then she turns her attention to Ian and it’s nothing short of embarrassing. She fawns over him, her hand on his arm, as she sings his praises with information she can only have gotten from Frank, and he squirms in his seat.

She excuses herself after their second drink—“need to pop to the little girl’s room,” she says, with a girlish laugh that makes Ian’s skin crawl—and Ian breathes an audible sigh of relief at the respite.

Robbie chuckles. “Fuck,” he says. “I thought my family was intense. Your sister’s something else, dude.”

“She’s not my sister,” Ian says stubbornly. “Not really.”

“Well, anyway,” Robbie says. “You know that this Jackson woman, the senator? You know she’s Milkovich’s aunt?”

Ian almost chokes on his last mouthful of beer. “Really?!”

“Yeah,” Robbie confirms. “By marriage I think, on one side or the other. But she took a special interest in Mickey and his sister, they’re all very close. I think maybe she’s harbouring hopes that Mickey and her daughter, y’know…” He winks, making a lewd gesture, and Ian bursts out laughing. _Yeah,_ he thinks. _Don’t think_ that’s _gonna happen._ He’s not sure why he finds it so funny.

*

Jimmy throws a party at his house on Saturday night and Fiona heads over there first thing to help him get ready. It’s mainly people he knows from his time growing up in Chicago, but he’s made sure to invite all the Gallaghers, Sammi included, along with Kev and Vee and several Alibi regulars, who turn up on the proviso that they never turn down a free drink. Frank was expressly _not_ invited, at Fiona’s request, but he turns up with Tommy and Kermit anyway and Fiona’s too desperate to avoid a scene to turn him away at that point. He sneers at her, before heading off to get stuck into Jimmy’s drinks cabinet.

Ian hadn’t really wanted to come, having invited Robbie and being, unsurprisingly, turned down on the basis of Mickey’s inevitable presence, he feels a little lost. Lip’s here, but there’s some girl—Amy? Angela? Something with an A—hanging off his arm and so Ian’s had barely a chance to talk to him, and Fiona is playing hostess with Jimmy and his brother. It suits her well, he notes; she’s smiling widely as Jimmy introduces her to various friends and colleagues, and making appropriate small talk and everyone looks thoroughly enamoured with her. Ian’s pleased, because this party has been a subject of much anxiety on her part all week, Fiona being convinced that she could never fit in amongst Jimmy’s peers. It’s nice to see her blend in so seamlessly, he just wishes he could do the same.

Instead, he’s once again been cornered by Sammi who is singing the praises of Jimmy’s house and Jimmy himself and comparing it to places in Washington and Ian’s fast reaching the point where he’d probably find drinking bleach preferable to having to hear any more of it.

He eventually manages to escape her when she offers to go and get them more drinks, and as soon as she’s out of sight he ducks out of the room, heading down the hallway to find somewhere quiet where he can hide until she finds someone else latch on to.

He’s trying to remember the layout of the house from the last time he was here, skipping the door that he knows leads to the kitchen, and then he finds himself in what seems to be a games room. Mickey’s in there, playing pool and seemingly alone. Ian freezes in the doorway, his mouth suddenly dry and his mind somehow not getting the message to his legs to leave, and Mickey looks up at him from where he’s bent over the table. He straightens almost immediately, clears his throat and pulls at his clothes where they’ve rumpled a little. He’s dressed for the party, his shirt a deep shade of purple that somehow brings out the colour in his eyes, and Ian wonders why he’s in here instead of being at the party with everyone else.

“You, um, you want a game?” Mickey asks, gesturing at the table.

Ian’s caught so off guard that his mind goes entirely blank, his mouth moving wordlessly as he tries to find an excuse to say no, and then he’s saying, “Yeah, alright,” and mentally kicking himself because that isn’t what he wanted to say at all.

“Cool,” Mickey says, collecting the balls together and setting them back up without a word, placing them methodically into the triangle and shaking it out with his eyes fixed on the table. “You wanna go first?” he asks, holding the cue ball out to Ian.

Ian reaches for the ball, fingers brushing briefly over Mickey’s, and then he turns to grab a cue from the rack and take a minute to breathe. His heart is pounding and he feels some strange mixture of nerves, because he always seems to feel like that around Mickey, and anger, because he can hear Robbie’s voice in his head talking about how Mickey refused to help his family. He’s still wishing he’d just said no when he wanted to.

He turns back to the table, sets the ball down and lines up his break shot, feeling Mickey’s eyes on him the whole time. He breaks ok, pocketing one ball of each suit, and then lining up another shot while the silence between him and Mickey grows increasingly awkward. He misses his shot, fuck knows how because it should have been an easy pot, and then steps back to let Mickey have his turn.

Mickey pots his first ball with what looks like zero effort, and then takes a minute to choose his next shot, pacing around the table a few times before selecting a ball. He’s lining up the shot when the silence finally becomes too much for Ian.

“I guess we should at least try and talk a little, right?” he says, his voice full of false cheer. Mickey looks up at him from where he’s lining up his cue, frowns, and then takes the shot, his ball falling short of the pocket he was aiming for. Ian steps up the table, and presses on. “I could say something about tomorrow’s game,” he says, as he chooses which ball to go for. “You could answer with something about the chances of the Sox winning next week.” He lines up his shot, pockets the ball but takes one of Mickey’s along with it and then the cue ball follows after. He curses under his breath.

“What, you can’t play pool without having a fucking conversation?” Mickey’s scornful as he moves past Ian to take his turn.

“Sometimes it’s best to,” Ian says, narrowing his eyes a little as he watches Mickey repeat his performance to choose his ball.

Mickey huffs, and then takes the shot and misses. “What, for you or for me?”

Ian shrugs as he steps up to the table. “Both, I guess. Given that we’re both hiding from the party in here.” He grins up at Mickey, and then takes his shot without re-checking his angle. He pockets the ball, out of sheer luck rather than anything else, but he feels justified in feeling a little smug as he picks out his next target.

“You, anti-social? I’d never have guessed,” Mickey mutters, a scowl etched onto his face as Ian hits his next ball, and misses this time. Mickey takes his place at the table, leaning over to reach the cue ball where it’s positioned awkwardly. He ends up almost on his tiptoes on one foot, and Ian has to look away. He’s surprised when Mickey speaks again. “You, um. You come up to the North Side a lot?” he asks, before he takes the shot and pockets his ball, moving around the table to pick another one, pocketing that one with ease.

It’s awkward small-talk, and Ian knows it, but he plays along. “Few days a week,” he shrugs. “People always want fast-food, right? It’s easy money.” Mickey’s face clouds over at the reminder of their chance meeting at Ian’s register the previous week, and Ian seizes the opportunity to needle at him on Robbie’s behalf. “When you came in the other day, I was just training one of our new management recruits.”

Mickey’s scowl deepens. “Robbie’s got that way of making new friends easily,” he says, his voice hard. “Doesn’t mean he can keep them.” He hits the cue ball with way too much power and it bounces up and off the table. Ian retrieves it, placing it back on the table to take his turn.

“Seems like he was unlucky to lose _your_ friendship,” Ian says and then pauses to take his shot, partly for effect and partly to ensure that his choice of words makes it clear that he knows Mickey’s secret. He pockets his ball, and then meets Mickey’s eyes. “I mean, that’s something that’s gonna affect him his whole life,” he says, and Mickey’s eyes darken just a little. He opens his mouth to reply, but he’s cut off before he can start by Kev bursting through the door.

“Oh,” he says, and he’s clearly well on his way to being drunk. “I was looking for Vee…and the bathroom…Vee _in_ the bathroom, if you catch my drift.” He winks, wobbling a little. “ _Great_ party, man,” he says to Mickey. “Not sure why you two are holed up in here…oh, unless?” It’s like a light coming on, and he grins widely. “That’d be a turn up, right? Fi with your guy Jimmy, and then you two? That’d be something.” He’s turning as he finishes his ramble, and he staggers off, presumably still searching for the bathroom and Veronica, and the thrill Ian had been feeling at needling Mickey is replaced with a weird kind of second-hand embarrassment for Kev.

Mickey stares after him, the anger gone from his face but replaced with something else that Ian finds somehow more disconcerting. It’s like Ian can almost see the cogs turning in Mickey’s brain and although he’s not certain of the subject matter, Ian’s pretty sure he can take a fairly accurate guess.

He focuses back on the table, picking out a ball. “You said yourself that you don’t forgive easily, right?” He takes the shot and then looks up, his ball bouncing off the cushion and knocking one of Mickey’s into the pocket instead. “I’d kinda hope you’d be careful when starting arguments with your friends.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Mickey’s not taking his shot; he’s just looking at Ian like he’s trying to figure him out.

It makes Ian feel ridiculously uncomfortable, as if Mickey _could_ see right through him if he looked hard enough, and he hates it. He pulls himself up a little taller, taking advantage of the inches he has on Mickey, and probes further, trying to get the advantage back. “So you’d never be, I don’t know. Petty, or mean?”

Mickey doesn’t answer, turning his attention back to the table and pocketing his last coloured ball. He takes a shot on the black, misses and then looks up at Ian, his eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “What game are you playing here, man?”

“No game,” Ian says, trying to pocket his own ball and failing. “Just trying to figure you out.”

Mickey snorts. “Yeah, and how’s that working out for you?”

“Terribly,” Ian says, honestly. “There’s so many different stories that I don’t know which to believe.”

Mickey takes another shot, pockets the black with ease this time, and turns to shake Ian’s hand. His grip is firm, strong, and he doesn’t let go immediately. Instead, he looks up at Ian, making eye contact, his gaze unwavering.

“Look,” Mickey says. “Don’t waste time trying to figure me out, ok? It won’t end well for either of us.”

Ian shrugs, pulling his hand away as he turns to head back to the main room so he can try to find Lip. “If I don’t try now, I might never know, right?” he says. He grins over his shoulder at Mickey, and then leaves without another word.

*

He doesn’t find Lip, and thankfully Sammi is nowhere to be seen either, so he hangs on the outskirts of the room, drinking soda because he’s gone well over his usual alcohol limit. He runs the conversation with Mickey over and over in his mind, twists it until it fits with Robbie’s story. Mickey’s dismissal of Robbie seems to Ian to just be more proof of his guilt, that Robbie’s story had indeed been true. He’s surprised though, that Mickey was so open in his disregard for Ian’s friend. He’d expected him to cover up better than that.

He’s watching the room when Fiona finds him, her hair dishevelled in such away that he’s pretty sure he can guess the reason for her and Jimmy’s absence for the last half an hour. She’s not drunk, but tipsy enough to sling an arm awkwardly around his taller shoulder as she leans in to talk to him. 

“Where’ve you been hiding?” she asks.

“Not hiding,” he says, which he supposes isn’t quite true but he’s not going to get into the Sammi issue now. “I was playing pool, with Mickey.”

She looks up at him, surprised. “Really? Thought you two were like sworn enemies or something.”

He glares at her. “I’m not five; I can be polite when I need to. Anyway,” he says. “I wanted to see what he had to say about Robbie.”

“And?”

“I believe Robbie even more now,” Ian says decisively, but Fiona looks unconvinced.

“Look,” she says. “I asked Jimmy about it earlier.” Ian opens his mouth to protest, and she shushes him. “I was casual about it, ok? Just asked if he knew Robbie. And he said that he didn’t know the specifics, but he’s pretty sure Robbie’s not a trustworthy guy.”

A surge of rage goes through Ian, and he pulls away from Fiona. “Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he? He’s heard Mickey’s side of the story.” Fiona looks startled at his vehemence, and he takes a breath to calm down. “I’m sure he means well,” he says. “Of course he believes his friend. But I believe _my_ friend, Fi. He’s not lying.”

She sighs. “Just…promise me you’ll be careful, ok? The last thing you need is to be dragged into someone else’s shit.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” he says, and he’s the one that pulls her in for a hug this time. She holds on longer than is necessary, like the way she hugged him when he was a kid, or last year on the first day he managed to get out of bed after his crash, and he wonders what’s going through her mind.

When she pulls away and heads back off towards Jimmy, Ian spots Debbie coming back in the room, hanging off the arm of one of Jimmy’s friends. She looks more dishevelled than Fiona does; long strands of hair falling out of the weird twisty thing it had been fastened into, her lipstick smeared and the strap of her dress hanging over her shoulder. He frowns over at her, and then she meets his eyes, beaming at him and waving. She seems fine, Ian thinks, but he still doesn’t like it.

He goes in search of Carl next, finding him well past drunk in the kitchen. He tries to get his brother to drink some water, but Carl refuses, waving the bottle of beer he’s holding at Ian as if to prove that he’s already got a drink and doesn’t need another. One of Jimmy’s friends comes in to raid the fridge, staring down at the brothers where they’re sitting on the floor as if they’re some kind of zoo exhibit, and Ian feels that feeling of embarrassment from earlier returning. He can’t imagine what all these rich, privileged people must think of his family, he thinks that they must seem so loud and brash compared to the lifestyle of Jimmy and his friends.

He hands Carl over to Lip, who’s finally resurfaced from wherever it was he’d got to—“Hey, what d’you think of Amanda?” he stops to ask Ian, and Ian just shrugs because he’s not even exchanged two words with her and he’s sure she’ll be replaced with someone else by next week anyway—and then he goes to use the bathroom. The one downstairs is engaged, so he heads upstairs only to find Frank rifling through the bathroom cabinets.

“Son!” his father crows. “Come help me out, this is the last one.” When Ian steps into the bathroom, he’s horrified to find that Frank’s got a pillowcase full of items that he’s presumably liberated from various rooms—jewellery, some ornaments, a couple of bundles of cash.

“What are you _doing_?” he hisses, pulling Frank out into the hallway.

“Just…just taking what I’m due,” Frank mumbles, a pill bottle still in his hand. “Why should Fiona get all the luck, when I’m the one who set it all up, I’m the one who got her that job…”

Ian chances a glance down the hallway, and then shoves Frank into Jimmy’s bedroom. “Fiona got _herself_ that job,” he says, trying to keep his voice down. “She worked hard to get it. And even if she didn’t, you can’t just go robbing her boyfriend’s house.”

“Not stealing,” Frank says, stubbornly. “Just taking what I need, that’s all.”

“Put it back, Frank,” Ian says. “All of it.”

“And why should I?” Frank’s voice is getting louder, and Ian feels dread start to pool in his stomach. He can’t risk anyone over-hearing, needs to put everything to rights before Frank’s misdemeanour can be discovered. “I don’t have to listen to you,” Frank carries on, his voice getting continuously louder. “Damn fucking kids. And you, you’re not even mine, don’t know why I even let you stay, you can fuck off just like Fiona and that asshole downstairs—”

“ _Frank_ ,” Ian hisses, desperately, as he hears footsteps outside, but it’s too late, the door bursts open and Jimmy, Fiona and Mickey are in the doorway, staring at them, taking in the sight of Ian trying to restrain his father’s flailing arms and the pillowcase of stolen goods on the floor. Ian sags back against the wall, barely able to look at them. Jimmy looks shocked more than anything, and Fiona’s cheeks are red enough to rival Ian’s hair, but Mickey is the one that bothers Ian the most. His face is hard, his jaw tight, and he’s looking down at Frank with obvious disgust, like their father might be infectious. Ian sometimes thinks that maybe he is, and right now more than ever, because then Mickey is looking at him, and at Fiona, and that same look is on his face.

Before Ian can even pause to take stock, they’re leaving in a huge rush of apologies under the gaze of Jimmy’s guests; Frank shouting the odds at everyone, Carl retrieved from where he was vomiting into a houseplant, Debbie pulled away from whatever-his-name-was, and then they’re piling into a cab and Mickey is watching them leave from the doorway of Jimmy’s house.

That look is still on his face.


	6. Chapter 6

Ian spends the whole journey back to their house in silence. He’s not sure how he ended up in the cab with Fiona, Frank and Sammi while Lip and his girlfriend got the relative ease of just Carl and Debbie for company in the car behind, but he’s really wishing he’d been paying better attention to the seating arrangements as they left the house. Fiona and Frank are having a full blown argument from either side of him, talking across him as if he isn’t even there; it’s getting more and more heated, and Sammi keeps twisting round from the front row of the van to add her two cents in as well, defending their father more veraciously than even Frank’s capable of. Ian finds it bizarrely unsettling, Sammi’s unflinching loyalty to the father who by all accounts didn’t give a shit about her for most of her life.

Fiona huffs out a noise of defeat beside him; the inevitable result when arguing with Frank. Frank always has an answer, a retort, an anecdote that proves how right he is, and it’s pointless really ever trying to win. She twists in her seat slightly so that she’s got her back to Ian and Frank, and starts aggressively tapping the keys on her cell phone; she’s texting Jimmy, Ian presumes, trying to make amends. He wonders how likely that is, realistically.

It comes back to him in flashes, the party and trying to get away from Sammi and the pool game with Mickey; and then Frank with his bag of loot and his loud voice and then everyone crowding around them and just looking at them, at _him_ , as if they were dirty, disgusting, nothing and it brings back too many things that he’s fought to forget. His stomach churns and he swallows back the urge to vomit, trying to breathe instead and wondering, when it comes out high-pitched and shaky and loud, if everyone else can hear how much he’s freaking out. He curls in on himself, bent over so that his forehead touches his knees, his heart pounding and his mind racing, trying to process everything that just happened. There’s adrenaline coursing through him, a strange combination of shame and rage, and he's barely holding it together, can feel the cracks forming in the mask he’s put up.

When they get home, Fiona refuses to let Frank into the house, literally bars the way in with Lip and Ian flanking her on either side as Debbie and Carl watch from the living room window. Ian’s gripping the rail on the porch so tight that his knuckles have turned white, so tight that the only thing he can feel is the wood digging into his palm and he wonders if that’s the one thing anchoring him down. There’s rage bubbling in his stomach, and he’s biting his tongue to get from letting it spill out. He’s not sure that he’d be able to stop once he’d started.

He spends the rest of the night pacing the floor, and as soon as it hits five o'clock he goes for a run. He runs eight miles and doesn't feel any better.

*

Sammi’s in the kitchen when he gets back; he supposes that he shouldn’t really be surprised, given that Chuckie had spent the previous night there, but he’d been hoping he’d have a bit of a reprieve from her attentions for a day or so. No such luck.

He’s still on edge despite the run, just wants to get in the shower and then hide in his room and maybe work out some more in the hopes that it might shut his brain up, but she springs up from her seat at the table as soon as he comes in the room, and then she won’t let him get a word in.

She’s pouring coffee as she chatters, shoving a mug unceremoniously into his hand. He takes it, not quite annoyed enough to turn down hot coffee, but he’s edging towards the stairs nonetheless. The back of his heel hits the bottom step when her prattle is suddenly turned directly onto him, and he freezes.

“Ian,” she says. “I don’t know if I mentioned, about my job?” Ian almost chokes on his coffee, although Sammi doesn’t seem to notice. She just carries on her stream of conversation. “Well, my boss, Senator Jackson, thinks that I need to get an assistant. _‘Sammi,’_ she said to me. _‘Sammi, you work yourself far too hard. That boy of yours is growing up right before your eyes, and you’re missing all of it.’_ And she’s right,” Sammi says. “Some weeks I barely even see Chuckie, y’know? Poor kid’s so sensitive, he needs me around.”

Ian doesn’t tell her that he’d caught Chuckie watching Carl’s porn earlier that week, or that when he’d taken all the kids to the arcade Chuckie had responded to a kid trying to take Liam’s quarters by bashing the bully’s head into a wall. Sensitive is _not_ the word that Ian would have chosen.

“…and so I really have been thinking about it, and being here this week and meeting all you guys, I suddenly thought, hey! Why not kill two birds with one stone, y’know?” She beams at him, big and wide, and although it seems genuine Ian can’t help but think this whole conversation is going to come with a catch. “I mean, I’ve seen how much you’re all struggling,” she’s saying now. “You’re all working all these jobs, and not really getting anywhere, and anything I can do to help with that, I should really. We’re family, right?” She beams again, and Ian’s throat is so tight he can’t speak. He nods, although he’s not sure Sammi really needed the validation to keep going. He’s trying to focus on her words, trying to get a grip on the way he feels so suddenly offended and _defensive_ , because she’s still talking in this nice-as-pie voice but he can somehow feel the veiled insult underneath it all anyway. He leans against the wall, his free hand balled into a fist and the grip on his coffee cup becoming dangerously tight.

“So this job,” she says. “It’s pretty basic, but y’know, the pay isn’t that bad and it’s got good benefits. Healthcare, dental, whole nine yards. What d’you say?”

Ian blinks at her. “What?” he says dumbly, feeling like he’s missed something huge.

“The job,” she says. “I’m giving you the job.”

He stares at her blankly. “I didn’t apply for any job.”

“Oh I know, silly,” she says, swatting playfully at him. “But I thought it’d be nice to keep it in the family, and I know you’ll work hard.”

It’s starting to get clearer in his head, and his voice is firm when he answers this time. “I don’t want it.”

“You don’t need to play it cool,” she says. “And don’t worry that you won’t be able to manage it. I know you’re a great kid, you’ll do a great job.”

He curls his fist even tighter, feels his jaw set stubbornly. “No,” Ian says, as firmly as he can manage without losing his temper. “I _really_ don’t want it.”

She frowns at him, eyebrows pulled together in obvious confusion. “It’s a good offer, Ian. Probably the best you’re gonna get. I mean, Daddy’s told me about all the problems you’ve had and—”

He cuts her off, slamming his mug down on the counter. “ _No_ ,” he says, and suddenly his voice is loud, so loud that it sounds alien even to him. She flinches, and he stops, takes a minute to breathe, and then looks her directly in the eye. “I don’t _want_ the job,” he says, enunciating each word slowly. “I don’t want to work in politics; I don’t want to move away. I want to stay _here_ and go to college and do exactly what I have planned.”

He leaves his coffee half-drunk, and heads to the bathroom before she can try again.

*

Frank doesn’t take Ian’s refusal well at all.

He’s at their house when Ian gets home on Monday—he lifeguards at the community pool twice a week, and he’s aching all over and his shoulders are burnt, so a confrontation with Frank is not what he had in mind for his afternoon—and Sammi’s hovering behind him, like a fucking moth gravitating towards a flame. She looks nervous, her eyes flicking between Ian and Frank, and suddenly a few more pieces start to slot into place. _Of course._  

“Son,” Frank says, arms outstretched, and Ian is immediately on his guard. Frank’s voice is light, jovial almost, and Ian’s lived with him long enough to know that it’s a warning sign. “Hard at work, I see,” Frank continues, punching him on the shoulder. Ian forces himself not to flinch, pulls himself up, back straight and shoulders back, just like he remembers. “Always working hard, that’s us Gallaghers,” Frank says, turning to Sammi as he does. “And I hear that Sammi here has given you a _great_ opportunity, to work for her in Washington.” He looks back at Ian, narrows his eyes at him, and Ian avoids his gaze, focuses on the ceiling. His back is so tight that he feels like if he straightens it any further it might snap, and there’s a part of him that wants to test that, see if it really will. He pulls up, just a little bit straighter, and a muscle flexes in his jaw.

“And I know that _my son_ Ian would take any opportunity given to him,” Frank continues, and the joviality is gone, replaced with a mean edge, one that Ian had been expecting all along. “Because we _Gallaghers_ aren’t prone to looking gift horses in the mouth. Isn’t that right, _son?_ ” He say the last word with a sneer, with a sudden look that’s so unexpectedly hate-filled that it has Ian losing his rigid stance and taking a step backwards, and then another, and then one more and his back’s against the wall.

He tries to escape upstairs but Frank’s onto him, crowding him against the wall until he can’t escape, until he feels trapped, and all he can see, hear, breathe is Frank, yelling about how useless he is and why can’t he think about everyone else for a change and hasn’t everyone done enough taking care of him.

Fiona’s voice filters through, yelling at Frank and asking what the fuck he’s playing at, and Frank’s attention is pulled away from Ian long enough for Ian to regain some focus, so stand a little straighter and remember the defiance he’d felt before his father unleashed yet another verbal assault on him. He regains his posture, pulls his back tighter and straighter until it’s even more taut than before, his eyes focused on a greasy mark on the wall.

He can hear Fiona and Frank yelling at each other, _again_ , always yelling, too much yelling, but he can’t make out the words, is too busy looking at that spot on the wall. Eight-year-old Ian wants to make it into a dinosaur, wants to think that the misshapen blob can be something halfway magical, but adult Ian just sees it as one more thing that makes him, his family, somehow lesser, lower, bottom of the pile. He’s pretty sure Jimmy Lishman doesn’t have any greasy spots on his wall, and he’s willing to bit that Mickey Milkovich, wherever he lives, doesn’t either.

He’s suddenly aware that Fiona’s talking at him, _to_ him, and he blinks several times in quick succession and then focuses on her voice. “Sammi offered you a job?” She sounds surprised, like that wasn’t what she expected any more than Ian had, and there’s a panic deep in his gut that maybe she might agree with Frank, that maybe she might think it’s best that he take it, maybe she might think his own plan is unachievable and that this job is his best shot. He watches, watches her face as her eyebrows pull together and she puts all the pieces in place.

“And Frank thinks you should take the job?” Ian nods, not trusting himself to speak. “But you don’t want to?” Ian shakes his head. “And you told Sammi that?” Ian nods again.

“Well,” Fiona says, and Ian’s stomach churns violently. “I guess that leaves it up to you, Ian. Frank,” she says, gesturing at their father, “Is never going to speak to you again if you don’t take the job.” She pauses, and she looks at Ian. Her eyes are sparkling a little, and he feels suddenly relieved, like maybe some of the tension slips from his spine, like maybe his stomach stops churning just a little bit. She grins at him, and then she continues what she’d been going to say. “And _I’ll_ never speak to you again if you do.”

*

As far as Ian’s concerned, that’s the matter over and done with, so he’s quite frankly _astonished_ when, on Tuesday evening, Carl lets slip after a couple of beers that Sammi had offered Lip the exact same job that she’d offered Ian and that Lip had accepted the offer.

“Are you _sure_?” he says, because he’s sure Carl must have it wrong, must have misunderstood somehow, but Carl just takes a swig of his beer like it’s no big deal and nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “Debbie was listening the whole time. She said he practically bit her hand off.”

Ian’s not sure why it bothers him so much—he doesn’t want the stupid job, never did, so why does it matter if Lip or anyone else takes it instead? But it does bother him, eats away at him all night, until he’s spent another night without sleep, clock-watching until he can allow himself to declare it morning and go for a run.

It still doesn’t help.

*

He finds Lip under the L tracks, late on Wednesday afternoon. His brother’s kicking at rocks with a cigarette in his hand, and for a moment it’s like they’re teenagers again, like the last five years never happened. Ian allows himself a moment to believe in it, before he steps into Lip’s eye line.

Lip won’t meet his eyes.

They stand in silence for almost five minutes until Ian gives in. “You could have told me.”

Lip sighs, grinds out his cigarette with his heel. He reaches for another almost immediately, offers the packet to Ian before taking one for himself and lighting it. “I would have,” he says. “Didn’t expect Carl to get in there first.”

Ian takes a drag on his cigarette and laughs, a weird half-genuine, half-fake laugh that echoes a little in his chest. “Always check the stairs, bud.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Lip says lightly, leaning against one of the stone pillars and then sliding down it until he’s sitting on the ground. “I would have, though,” he says again. “I would.”

“Why’d you agree to take it?” Ian’s voice comes out smaller than he means it to, and he clears his throat so that his next words come out stronger. “You know Frank’s behind this, he has to be.”

Lip’s voice is flat. “I don’t care.”

Ian stares at him in astonishment. “But—”

“No, Ian I mean it,” Lip says, looking up at him. “I _don’t_ care. I don’t care if Frank’s behind it; I don’t care if you think I’m making a huge mistake. It’s done, I took the job.”

Ian scuff his feet against the ground. He’s wondering again, why he’s so bothered by this, why he really doesn’t want Lip to take this job, why he doesn’t want Sammi and her strange allegiance with Frank anywhere near his brother. “You have fucking engineering degree, and you’re gonna go and work in some fucking office?” It comes out harsher than he expected, but somehow he can’t rein it in. He’s remembering how Sammi sold the job to him, remembering how she’d told him that he’d never get a better offer, and he’s wondering if she said the same thing to Lip. Wondering if his brother believed it, the way that Ian almost had. “You can do so much better than that!” he shouts, and he’s talking about Lip, but he’s also talking about himself, about all of them. They can all do better than charity that’s only being thrown their way because it suits Frank somehow.

Lip’s face twists, and he pushes himself up of the ground, dropping his half-smoked cigarette and letting it burn out amongst the gravel. “Yeah, well you know what?” he yells, pushing up into Ian’s face. “Turns out a degree is worth _jack shit_ in the real world if you can’t get a fucking job! I have applied for every single job I’ve seen Ian, for months. I can’t even find a place to work for _free_ ; do you know how shit that feels?”

Ian backs up a little, outstretches his hands to keep Lip from actually starting a full blown fight. “Something will turn up,” he says insistently and he knows he’s being selfish, in a way. He’d thought they were going to get one last summer together before Lip went his own way for good, only coming home for holidays. He doesn’t want Lip to leave, not yet, not when the summer is still stretching in front of them. He’d wanted to spend it hanging out with his brother, just messing around like when they were kids, but he supposes that time is long past already. “You don’t need to take this one just because it’s first.”

Lip’s quiet for a moment, and Ian can see how much of an effort it is for him, can see the tension in his brother’s shoulders as he fights the urge to shout and rage and lash out. Instead, when Lip talks again his voice is quiet. “Remember when we went to meet Clayton? And I asked why you wouldn’t tell him, that he was your dad?” Ian just nods, suddenly mute because how could he forget that day? He’s confused as to what Lip’s getting at. “I didn’t get it,” Lip carries on. “I didn’t understand why you’d give all that up, to come back here.” He waves his arm around at the rubble and garbage strewn about, discarded furniture and burnt out oil drums. “I mean, who’d do that right? But,” he says, with a wry smile. “ _You_ would, that’s the point. Because you know what you want and you won’t settle for less; you have since you were six years old and decided you wanted to be a soldier after Monica got you that Action Man for your birthday.”

Ian looks away, a lump in his throat, because he doesn’t get to have that any more, it all got thrown away and so Lip doesn’t have a point at all because knowing what he wants has never got him anywhere. “Yeah, because that worked out so well,” he mutters, scuffing his shoe against the ground and kicking at a rock.

“Well, I know you didn’t get to do it, and that’s shitty and I’m sorry,” Lip says. “But the point is, you got right back up, created a whole new plan for yourself. And you’re sticking to it, and that’s amazing and I am so proud of you, I am. But _I’m not like you_ , ok? I don’t have all these big goals to achieve. All I want is a job that pays enough for me to get by, and maybe have some left over to give to Fiona. This job’s as good as any.”

“But—” Ian starts, and Lip just grins at him.

“Quit while you’re ahead, bro,” he says, a trace of his old cockiness back. “Agree to disagree and all that, yeah?”

Ian shifts uncomfortably. “If it’s really what you want?” he says, and he knows that Lip can hear the question in his voice.

“Yup,” Lip says. “Besides,” he says, and he lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Washington chicks have got to be hot, right?”

*

Regardless of his truce with Lip, he corners Fiona that evening. She’s watching some documentary on the TV in the living room, and he plonks down next to her, watching quietly until the ad break starts. As soon as the music for her show cuts out, he asks her the question that’s been bugging him ever since Carl had told him about Lip.

“I don’t get it,” he says. “You stuck up for me when I turned her down. Why won’t you do that for Lip?”

She sighs, pulling her legs up to her chest and then looking at him over her knees. “Ian, not everyone is the same. You didn’t want that job, ok? You’ve got a whole other plan in motion. A _good_ plan. Besides,” she pauses, takes a minute to consider her words. “I’ll be honest; I like you being close enough for me to keep an eye on.” She reaches out to ruffle his hair, like when he was little, and he lets her, enjoys the momentary comfort it gives. “So of course I stood up for you,” she continues, rubbing the ends of his hair between her thumb and finger as she lets him go. “I always will, you know that. But Lip? Lip says he wants the job. He seems really happy about it, and that’s the difference. I’m not going to try and stop him doing what he wants, any more than I’d stop _you_ doing that. You gotta make your own choices.”

He sags back against the couch, because he knows he can’t argue with that really, can’t say that stopping Lip doing whatever he thinks is right is the right thing to do.

She squeezes his shoulder, smiles at him, and then gets up and moves into the kitchen. He watches her go, suddenly uneasy and trying to put his finger on why. He follows her out of the room, leans against the door jam as she starts running water into the sink. She shoves dirty dishes into the bowl, and there’s something _off_ about her, Ian thinks. Something in the tense way that her shoulders are pulled in that just isn’t quite right.

“Are you ok, Fi?”

She takes a moment before she responds, turning to look at him. “Yeah,” she says. “Everything’s fine.”

He looks at her, and he’s amazed he missed it before. She’s smiling, but it’s too wide somehow, too bright, the kind of smile that doesn’t leave her mouth. Her eyes are bloodshot, and he wonders if she’s been crying.

“Bullshit,” he says shortly. “You’re not ok at all.”

“It’s nothing,” she says, defensively. Ian raises his eyebrows, and she sighs, leaning back against the counter. “Jimmy left,” she says softly. “He’s gone back to New York.”

“ _Left_?” Ian echoes. “What do you mean he— I thought you guys had sorted everything out, after the party and stuff?”

She shrugs. “So did I,” she says, and she sounds flippant but Ian can see that she’s feeling anything but. “We talked on the phone and he was really nice about it, y’know? Totally understood that it was just Frank and that it was nothing to do with the rest of us.”

“So what changed?” Ian’s almost afraid to ask, afraid to break down this wall that Fiona’s got up, but he can’t help it. Mickey Milkovich’s face swims into view, looking at him, at all of them, like dirt, and the sick feeling from Saturday night returns.

“Fuck knows,” Fiona says, her voice suddenly hard and bitter. “All I know is that Chip came to see me today—he sent his brother, can you believe that?—and had me sign all this paperwork to promise that I won’t sue them. I mean, _really_?” She looks up at him, and the hurt and disbelief is written all over her face. “Do they seriously think I’d risk my fucking job for a lawsuit?”

“I can’t believe he’d just leave like that,” Ian says, and he knows it’s not helpful, that it doesn’t matter what he believes or expected, because he can tell from Fiona’s face that it’s true, that Jimmy really has left her, really has turned out to be just like every other guy his sister has ever put her trust in, and so he does the only thing he can and wraps his arms around her as tight as he can.

“He’s gone, Ian,” she says into his shoulder, and it turns into a sob halfway through. “He left. He left.”

Ian doesn’t know what to say.

*

They hold a leaving party for Lip on Friday. It’s not so much a party as a gathering in the Alibi, but they invite everyone they can think of and Kev offers everyone free drinks for the first hour. He regrets it, thirty minutes in, when half the patronage are onto their third beers and still going strong.

Ian invites Robbie to come, eager both for his company and to introduce him to his family, and so they arrive together a little after eight. He does a quick scan of the room as they come in the door, picks out his siblings—and Frank, because of course Frank wouldn’t have the decency to stay away—with ease. Fiona is sitting at the bar, knocking back shots with Veronica. She’s laughing, full on belly laughs with her head flung back, and somehow that worries Ian far more than angry-Fiona or sad-Fiona. In-denial-Fiona has a self-destructive tendency that has never been fully let off the leash, and Ian really hopes that today isn’t that day. He’s not sure he can cope with that straight after Lip leaving.

“Ian!” Debbie spots him first, bounding up to him and thrusting a drink into his hand—soda, he notices, because Debbie is paranoid about him drinking too much—and then she notices Robbie and her entire demeanour changes. She pulls herself up a little taller, her shoulders back, and then she looks him up and down with a hungry look on her face that Ian doesn’t like _at all._ “Robbie, this is my sister Debbie,” he says. “My _kid_ sister,” he adds pointedly. The look Debbie gives him in response could probably burn the flesh off the uninitiated, but Ian’s lived with it for as long as he can remember and he learned to withstand it before she’d even hit double figures. She turns, flouncing away with so much attitude that it even shows in her _hair_ , and Ian realises that Robbie’s laughing.

“Jesus, are _all_ your sisters nuts?” he asks, and Ian laughs too.

“Pretty much,” he says. “It’s a family trait; no one escapes it.”

They grab beers at the bar—Debbie glares at him again so he makes a point of downing his soda in three mouthfuls before he grabs his beer—and then they head over to the table where Carl and Lip are sitting. They’re engrossed in a heated discussion about what sounds like a school project—Ian finds this somehow hilarious—and at first they don’t notice the extra bodies at their table. Robbie’s watching them curiously, a smile twitching at his lips, and Ian kicks him under the table.

Lip looks up first, his frown morphing into a grin when he sees it’s Ian. “Hey, man,” he says. “Starting to think you weren’t coming.”

“Are you kidding? You think I’d miss this?” Ian says. Lip’s grin widens a little, and then Ian says, “It’s not every day Kev gives away free beer. Gotta take what you can get.” Lip laughs, not a full-bodied laugh but it’s a genuine enough chuckle and Ian knows for sure that they’re alright again.

They’re interrupted by Carl shoving his chair out from the table, standing up so quickly that the table wobbles and beer sloshes out from the top of Ian and Robbie’s glasses. “Hey, watch it,” Lip says, and Carl scowls.

“It’s _free_ ,” he says. “You can just get more.” He moves to walk away from the table, his head down and his shoulders turned in, and Ian grabs his arm as he passes.

“You ok?” he asks, his voice low. Carl looks back at the table, his eyes passing between Lip and Robbie, and then turns his attention back to Ian.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he bites out. “Get off my ass.” He yanks his arm out of Ian’s grip, moves into the crowd, and Ian doesn’t see him again for the rest of the night.

*

Lip leaves first thing on Saturday morning. He’s hungover, and looks like death warmed up—both Fiona and Ian tell him so—but he manages to make the best of it, hugs them all close and promises Fiona for the third time that he’ll call when they get there.

He hugs Ian the longest and the tightest, and Ian’s suddenly struck by the fact that his brother is _leaving_ , leaving town for good; his brother, who has been his closest friend since the day he was born is moving on and away and leaving Ian behind. He wonders if Lip’s just had the same realisation too, because he pulls away a little, gripping Ian’s shoulders tight. “You’re gonna come visit, right?” he says, and for a brief moment he looks suddenly vulnerable for the first time in years. “’Cause I gotta have someone to share all my _Senator Jackson_ stories with.” He grins, and Ian laughs.

“Yeah,” he says. “Of course I will. Always wanted to visit D.C.” He hasn’t, and Lip knows he hasn’t, but neither of them say that. Instead, the whole family follows Lip to the door, watches as he gets into the cab where Sammi is waiting, and then they smile and wave and cheer until the car drives away down the street and then disappears round the corner.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait between chapters, I've got a lot of real-life stuff going on and since the last chapter I've also been moving house so I haven't had a lot of time spare! I hope the longer chapter makes up for it!

The next few weeks pass in a sort of surreal daze. They all seem to move forward without much of a fanfare, adjusting and adapting without even really talking about it. Ian _wants_ to talk about it, wants to sit down with Fiona and redraw the lines of responsibility, but Fiona is almost as far away right now as Lip is. She throws herself into everything far too hard, going to work early, coming back laden with fresh food for recipes she’s found in magazines, spending half the night cleaning the house. He knows she’s not ok, and he’d hazard a guess that she does too, but whenever he brings it up she just smiles, wide and fake, and tells him brightly that of course she’s fine. Ian's not sure who she's trying to convince, him or herself. As far as he can tell, she's not doing a very good job of either.

Debbie’s getting ready to leave for college, and Ian watches as the contents of her room start vanishing into boxes and trash bags. Her posters come down, leaving bright squares on the wall where the paper hasn’t faded yet; her clothes get packed and donated and recycled; her quirky bits of room decoration get painstakingly wrapped in paper. She’s got a new boyfriend, her phone glued to her hand as she taps out text messages without looking, and Ian wonders what will happen to him when she leaves. Not for the first time, he wonders how she and Carl have so suddenly grown up.

Ian starts sleeping again, but it doesn’t seem to make much of a difference to his mood. He’s still jittery, like he’s waiting for the next thing to go wrong, and he misses Lip’s company even more than he’d expected. It’s strange really, he muses to himself one night as he sits out on the front porch, smoking the last of the good weed that Lip had left behind, that he and Lip have lived apart for the best part of four years, between different colleges and ill-fated stints in the army and other places that Ian tries not to think about, but somehow this is the one that’s hit him hardest. There’s a permanence to it that wasn’t there before, an understanding that Lip won’t be coming home, that his home is somewhere else entirely. Ian hates it, but he supposes he doesn’t have much room to complain, given that he’s the one who left first.

Fiona comes out after a while, bringing them a beer each and sitting down beside him without a word. Ian presses his shoulder against hers and she pushes back a little, resting her head on his shoulder. They share the last of the joint—Ian’s rolled it far too strong for either of their tastes really, force of habit—and stare out across the street, not really focused on anything in particular. There’s a party going on somewhere, Ian can hear the thump of music in the distance, but it’s still much too quiet for his liking. It’s unsettling. There’s been far too much silence lately, everyone tiptoeing around each other.

“All ok?” he asks her, taking the last draw on the joint and then grinding it out against the wood with the heel of his shoe.

“Hm?” Fiona says, distracted, and then she follows the motion of his head as he nods towards the house. “Oh, yeah,” she says. “Liam’s in bed, listening to one of those audio books you got him for his birthday. Debbie’s packing.”

“How’s it going?” he asks, trying to keep the conversation going more than anything. He already knows how Debbie’s packing is going, because he’d spent an hour that afternoon perched on the edge of her bed and chatting while she flew from one end of the room to the other, grabbing random things and shoving them haphazardly into boxes.

“Fine, I think,” Fiona says. “Although I keep telling her, she doesn't need to take all of it, that it’ll still be here when she comes home just like yours and Lip’s was.” Fiona frowns. “I don’t think she believes me.”

“It’s not that,” Ian says. “It’s just that stuff’s important to her. She wants it close.”

“Yeah, well at this rate there’ll be no room in Kev’s truck for her,” Fiona jokes weakly, and Ian laughs, harder than the humour warrants. He’s hoping it’s a sign that maybe Fiona’s feeling better about things.

“Carl still out?” he says, and her frown returns, deeper this time.

“Yeah. I don’t know what’s going on with him lately; I hope he’s not getting into trouble again. He’s been working so hard.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he says, making his voice deliberately bright. “Just dumb teen boy stuff. Nothing you haven’t seen before.” He grins at her, and she returns the smile, although it doesn’t quite meet her eyes.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she says. Neither of them mentions all the times that stuff with any of them hasn’t just been “dumb teen boy” stuff, has been actual serious teen boy stuff that Fiona was never really prepared for. Each of them lets the other enjoy the illusion that Carl’s out smoking weed with a bunch of kids from school, and nothing more than that. Ian just hopes they’re right.

*

Three weeks after he left for D.C., Lip calls. Ian’s in bed, even though it’s past eleven and he hasn’t eaten or gone for his run, and he’s almost asleep again when the annoying trill of his ring tone pulls him out of the haze. He doesn’t look at the screen, just fumbles at the screen and then when the phone stops ringing, puts it to his ear and mumbles out a confused, “Hello?”

“Hey!” Lip’s voice is cheerful, too loud, and Ian groans, sliding back down the bed, pulling the covers over his head. There’s silence on the other end, Lip waiting for a response, and then a huff. “Ian? You there?”

“Yeah,” Ian says, closing his eyes so he can focus on Lip’s voice. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“You ok?” He can hear the sudden concern in Lip’s voice, the way the pitch suddenly gets higher as the volume gets lower and Ian sighs.

“I’m fine,” he says, and he means it to come out biting but to his ears it just sounds tired. So tired. “I’m fine,” he says again, and it’s stronger this time. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Lip says, his voice returning to normal although Ian’s pretty sure that the concern is still there. “I was just wondering, you’re going back to school soon, right?”

“Um,” Ian says, and he scrunches up his face, trying to remember the date. “Yeah, two weeks. Why?”

There’s a pause, and then Lip’s voice is bright and cheerful. Fake. “Well, you said you were gonna visit, right? Not much time left. I was thinking maybe next week?”

“Sure, whatever,” Ian says.

“Sammi said she'd pay for flights for you, or if any of the others want to come—”

“No,” Ian says sharply, sitting up so suddenly that he almost feels dizzy. “It’s fine,” he says firmly. “I’ve got some money saved, I’ll get a bus.” He doesn't want anything from Sammi, doesn't want any part of her grand plans or gestures. He’d rather spend a day on the bus than take her money.

“You sure, because—”

“I said it’s fine,” Ian insists, and Lip seems to know better than to argue.

“OK bud,” he says, his voice annoyingly placating. “Well, just text me when you get the tickets and I’ll come get you from the station, ok?”

* 

The journey to D.C. is long and boring, and Ian almost regrets his refusal of the plane tickets. Almost. It takes the best part of a day to get there, and by the time he arrives he’s stiff, tired and seriously out of his routine. It’s not a good combination.

Lip is waiting for him as promised, but Ian’s so crabby at that point that he’d probably have preferred the relative silence of a cab. Instead, Sammi drives them and talks the whole way, telling him some story about Sheila Jackson—it might be new, it might not, they’ve all started to run together in Ian’s head—and Lip adds in his own anecdotes here and there and then informs Ian that he’ll be meeting Sheila himself the following day. Ian seriously starts to question whether this trip was a good idea at all.

When they arrive at Sammi’s apartment—Ian supposes that technically it’s now Sammi-and-Lip’s apartment, but that doesn’t feel right at all—it’s close to sunset, the last of the daylight leaving long shadows on the ground. They live four floors up, and in the elevator up Sammi chats excitedly about how Sheila helped her pick out some of the furniture and how some of it is _identical_ to Sheila’s own furniture in the apartment she has out here. Ian meets Lip’s eyes in a simultaneous eyeroll, and then he has to cover up his laughter in a fake coughing fit as Sammi eyes them in confusion. Lip slings his arm around Ian’s shoulder, and Ian’s pretty sure that until that moment he hadn’t realised quite how much he’d missed his brother.

The apartment is more restrained than he’d imagined, Sammi’s tales conjuring up images of over-sized fireplaces and whatever’s passing for modern art these days. He’s pleasantly surprised to find that it’s mostly just an average apartment, save for the occasional large or out of place item that Sammi dutifully points out to him. He nods, smiles until his cheeks hurt, and then excuses himself to take his meds and go to bed. Lip shows him to where there’s a spare bed made up in his own room.

“Sorry about Sammi,” he says with a grimace, as soon as the door shuts behind them. “Likes the sound of her own voice.”

“Don’t apologise,” Ian says as he swallows the handful of pills. “I’m not the one who has to live with her. How do you stand it?”

Lip laugh ruefully, rubbing his hand through his hair. “It’s not so bad, actually. At work she’s usually too busy fawning over Sheila to bother with me, and she’s out most nights doing stuff with Chuckie. Some days I hardly even see her.”

“Sounds ideal,” Ian says dryly, and Lip grins.

“Could be worse, right?” he says. “Anyway, we’ll try and stay clear of her as much as we can. You got some places you want to see?”

“A few,” Ian says with a shrug. He’d looked up “places to see in Washington” on the internet a couple of days before, but he’s really more than happy to go along with whatever Lip has planned.

“Cool, well Sammi’s letting me have the day off tomorrow as long we promise to have dinner at Sheila’s, so we can go anywhere you want.”

“Ok,” Ian says with a nod, and then stifles a yawn. “I’m gonna hit the sack,” he says, and Lip nods.

“No problem,” he says. “I’m gonna go eat and stuff, catch you in the morning.”

*

The following day, Lip makes good on his promise and takes him into the city. Ian reels off the list that he’d ripped off from TripAdvisor, and Lip dutifully takes him up and down the National Mall, past memorials and into museums. Ian enjoys it, both the sights themselves and the time spent with just him and Lip. He makes a deal with himself to visit his brother more often.

The same can’t be said for dinner with Sheila that evening. The senator seems nice enough he supposes, presenting them with platefuls of hors d’oeuvre when they’re barely in the door, and then reeling off an impossible list of drinks she has on offer as soon as they’re seated in her living room. Ian asks for a beer, and she starts off on another list, only to be interrupted by Lip who orders for both of them. What Ian gets can vaguely pass for beer he supposes, and he guesses he should probably be happy with that.

There’s an awkward atmosphere at the dinner table as Sheila holds court, first quizzing Sammi about some poll or other that’s just been released, and then turning her attentions onto Ian.

“So, Ian,” she says. “Phillip tells me that you’re training in physiotherapy.”

“Um, yeah,” Ian says, trying to sit up a little straighter and strangely aware of ensuring that his arms are hovering over the table instead of resting on it. “I want to work with veterans, you know. People who’ve been injured on active duty.”

“Oh, that’s such a wonderful thing to do,” Sheila says, as though no-one’s ever thought of it before. “How lovely.”

Ian shifts in his chair. “Yeah, well I wanted to be in the army for a while, so next best thing, right?”

“Of course,” Sheila says, and her voice grates unpleasantly. “What a shame you couldn’t sign up.”

Ian shoots a desperate look at Lip, but his brother is too busy talking to Sheila’s daughter; he’s clearly deploying his “on my best behaviour” pick-up lines while the girl is laughing politely but quite obviously not interested at all. Ian would find it amusing if he wasn’t so uncomfortable with Sheila’s attention.

“Yeah, it was,” he says, hoping Sheila will drop it.

“And what happened there?” she asks. Clearly not dropping it, then.

“Just, um, health reasons,” he says vaguely.

“Oh, I see,” she says. “My Eddie, god rest his soul, was retired for ill-health. Such a _shame_.”

There’s a lull in conversation as the main course is served, and then Sheila continues where she left off as if the gap never happened.

“It’s so nice to see young boys in your situation trying to better yourselves,” she says. “I was saying to Phillip just last week, how _lucky_ he is that we had this opening for him.”

Ian gapes at her, not entirely sure he’s heard her correctly. “What do you mean?” he asks, trying to sound genuinely curious instead of the biting response he’s got brewing in his mind.

“Well,” she says, waving her fork. “Coming from where you do, it’s hard to rise above it. So nice, to see some motivation.”

“I don’t think it’s motivation that’s the problem,” Ian says coldly, and she turns to look directly at him, her eyes narrowed.

“ _Really?_ ” she says, just as Lip hisses out a warning from Ian’s other side.

“Really,” Ian confirms. “I’d say the problem is more generational poverty, inadequate education and prejudice from those in power myself.” He holds her gaze long enough to make his point clear, and then focuses his attention on his plate. “Lovely beef, Senator.”

*

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so mad,” Lip says later, as they lie in almost darkness. “It was brilliant.”

“Sorry,” Ian says with a frown. “It just kind of slipped out.”

“No, I mean it,” Lip says. “’Bout time someone told these pricks what’s what.”

“For all the good it’ll do,” Ian mutters, and Lip sighs.

“Yeah, true I guess. Still, it was worth it for the look on her face.”

It’s funny, Ian thinks, how his brother has changed. Time was, Lip would have been the one with the witty retorts, putting the people above him down just for the sake of it. He supposes that silence is just the price you pay to keep your job, and he wonders how Lip puts up with it. He’s not sure he ever could.

“Anyway,” Lip’s voice floats down from above. “What did you think to Karen?”

Ian laughs. “Oh, you mean the senator’s daughter who is _clearly_ not interested in you? I thought she seemed pretty smart to be honest.”

“Fuck you,” Lip says good-naturedly. “Seriously though, you don’t think she’s into it?”

“No,” Ian says. “She really isn’t.”

“You think she’s maybe…y’know, into the other?”

Ian bursts out laughing. “So what, the only reason a girl might not want to touch your dick is because she’s gay? Arrogant, much?”

“Whatever,” Lip says, mock-offended. “That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”

*

They go sight-seeing again the next day, but this time it’s cut short by an impromptu call from Sammi just before lunch-time. Lip answers it with a sigh and an exaggerated eyeroll, but he’s soon listening intently while Ian has to try and guess what’s happening with only Lip’s side of the conversation to go on.

“Shit, really? Why?...No, I’m not saying that, just seems strange that’s all…yeah well we can leave now if you want?...Dunno, half an hour, maybe? Depends on traffic…Right, ok. See you then.” Lip hits the end call button with what seems to Ian to be unnecessary aggression, raking his hand through his hair before turning back to Ian.

“Something’s come up,” he says evasively, and then sighs when Ian’s only response is to raise his eyebrows. “Apparently Sheila’s got family visiting. Mickey Milkovich and his cousin. Sammi says they just turned up at our apartment, looking for us.”

“For _us_?” Ian’s sceptical. The last he checked, he and Mickey Milkovich were barely on acquaintance terms, and that had been _before_ Frank had tried to rob Jimmy’s house. He can’t think of a single reason why Mickey would make a special trip across town just to see him and his brother.

Lip shrugs. “’S what Sammi said. I’m just the messenger bro’.”

They head to the nearest bus stop, and they’re waiting there when Lip breaks the silence between them. “Look, I’m really sorry ok? I know you and him are like sworn enemies or whatever.” He laughs uneasily at his own quip. “I had no idea he was gonna be here, I swear.”

“It’s fine,” Ian says flatly.

“I mean, you don’t have to come back. Sammi will have my ass if I don’t, but it’s not like she can fire _you,_ right?”

Ian would be lying if he said that he didn’t consider it, didn’t briefly entertain the possibility of turning back the way they had come and spending the rest of the day wandering the city alone, but then he remembers the last time he’d seen Mickey, remembers the disgust on the other man’s face as Ian and his siblings had hauled Frank away in disgrace, and he can’t bear to let him win, can’t allow the possibility of Mickey thinking that Ian’s too afraid to face him.

“No,” he says firmly, just as their bus approaches the stop. “I’m coming with.”

*

Mickey’s cousin is a tall woman with sharp features and dark inquisitive eyes; Mickey introduces her as Svetlana and she smiles warmly at Ian. They all sit awkwardly around Sammi’s big dining table for a short while, drinking coffee and making polite conversation—Ian’s pleased to note that Svetlana has none of the airs of her cousin and is full of jovial chatter—and Ian is acutely aware of Mickey staring at him almost the whole time. The shame he had felt on the night of Jimmy’s party returns in full force; his stomach starts to twist in anxiety.

As the coffees are finished and the conversation starts to die down, Svetlana takes a tight grip on Ian’s shoulders and steers him towards the sofa in the living room, pushing him down to sit and then sitting down herself. She looks at him closely, up and down and up again, and Ian shifts uncomfortably. When she speaks though, her voice is soft.

“I hear a lot about you,” she says, in her thick Russian accent.

Ian cringes. “I dread to think,” he says. “Mickey’s hardly my biggest fan.”

“You think so?” she says, with a look that seems almost like amusement. “Maybe so. But I hear good things only. I hear you are very smart.”

“Not really,” Ian says, not really knowing how to take her choice in conversation topic; she seems to be digging for information as much as offering it. “Lip’s the smart one, really. I’m just sort of…average, I guess.”

She opens her mouth to reply, but before she can get the words out Mickey has crossed the room and is standing in front of them. Ian hates that he’s sitting down, leaving Mickey with the appearance of towering over him, but somehow he can’t bring himself to stand up and directly acknowledge Mickey’s presence either. He looks down at his feet.

Mickey clears his throat and Ian’s head jerks up automatically. Mickey’s looking down on him, his face tense,, and Ian makes a point of meeting his gaze, looking him resolutely in the eye. Mickey blinks, and then clears his throat again.

“I, um. I hope things are good with you?” he says, his voice awkward and strangely stilted, like he’s reciting words off a script. “Your family and shit?”

Ian’s fairly certain that Mickey doesn’t give two shits about his family, but he’s wary of causing a scene in Sammi’s apartment, a scene that could lose Lip his job. He nods curtly. “Everyone’s good,” he says, and to his own ears his voice suddenly sounds as stilted as Mickey’s had. “Fiona got an employee award last month. She’s doing some courses or something, so she can branch out a little.” He hardens his stare a little, daring Mickey to bring up Jimmy’s sudden departure.

Mickey doesn’t take the bait. “That’s great,” he answers instead, still sounding awkward. “I’m guessing that would help out a lot.”

“Yep,” Ian says flippantly. “And it’s not like she’s got anything better to do these days, so…” He trails off deliberately, adds in a little shrug. Mickey flinches, and Ian’s pretty sure that he’s well aware of what Ian’s trying to do.

“Guess so,” Mickey says, and he turns abruptly back towards the kitchen, leaving Ian to glare after him.

Svetlana clears her throat beside him. “This one,” she says, gesturing after Mickey as she shakes her head. “He is stupid fucking idiot.” Ian notices though, that despite the harshness of her words, her face is soft, affectionate. It puzzles him a little, makes him wonder how Mickey can invoke such feelings from people like Svetlana or Jimmy when he behaves so rudely, when he treated Robbie and his family so badly. He doesn’t understand it at all.

*

They spend the evening at Sheila’s again that day—Ian’s realising that this is a very common occurrence for Sammi and Lip—and they’re unsurprisingly joined at dinner by Mickey and Svetlana. Sheila fawns over them both, Mickey in particular, but Mickey remains as reticent as ever and Ian wonders again if he’s missing something somewhere.

They’re playing video games after dinner when Ian gets the opportunity to investigate further; Sheila’s got a big screen set up in a room across the hall from her main living room with a couple of games consoles underneath. It’s Svetlana’s idea, and Ian’s well pas the point where he’d do anything to get out of the living room, away from Sheila’s self-important monologues and Sammi’s ingratiating encouragement. After some disagreement, they settle on Mario Kart—“that’s nice and light-hearted,” Sheila says after they decide, and Ian has to suppress a laugh because anyone who’d seen Mario Kart being played at the Gallagher house would _never_ call it light-hearted—and they’re midway through the third race when he suddenly becomes aware of Mickey watching them from the doorway.

The lapse in attention is enough to send his kart spinning off the track, and Svetlana crows as she overtakes him, but Ian’s lost interest in the game and instead has turned his attention on to Mickey.

“Are you trying to distract us?” he says, hoping his tone is as light and playful as he’s intending.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Mickey says softly, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed in front of him. “Seems like you’re fucking up all on your own anyway.”

Ian huffs out a laugh. “Really?” he says, and turns deliberately back to look at the screen. He frowns, hoping Mickey doesn’t see. Mickey’s got a point; Svetlana’s half a lap ahead of him now. He turns back to Mickey with a wide, fake smile. “I wouldn’t worry,” he says. “I’m good at coming back from behind.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Mickey says, and Ian’s not sure if he’s imagining it but the other man’s face seems to soften slightly. “But maybe sometimes you pay so much attention to where other people are that you forget to look at yourself.”

Ian’s vaguely aware that the music from the game has stopped, that Svetlana’s attention is now focused on the exchange between him and Mickey rather than the screen, and he has to fight to keep his emotions from showing. “That’s very presumptuous of you,” he says lightly. “I mean, if we’re going to start doing character analysis then I’m pretty sure I’d have a field day.”

Mickey’s lips quirk, just a tiny bit. “I’m sure you would,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean you’d get any of it right.”

Ian laughs. “Sounds like a challenge,” he grins, and then he nudges Svetlana. “Did you know,” he says. “That the first time I met Mickey, he didn’t speak to anyone all night? Just nursed his beer and glared at everyone who dared to come near him.”

Svetlana giggles. “This I can believe,” she says with a nod, and Ian looks up at Mickey expectantly. Instead of the angry expression he’s expecting though, Mickey looks more like he’s humouring Ian, like he’s genuinely interested in hearing Ian’s opinion of him. Ian quirks an eyebrow at him in challenge.

Mickey takes a moment before he speaks, and when he does his voice is softer than Ian’s heard it before, soft enough that if Ian didn’t know better he’d take it to be genuine. “I’m, uh. I’m not good with new people,” Mickey says.

Ian hadn’t expected that, genuine or not. “Well,” he says. “If you can’t find conversation to be made, with your multi-million dollar business and fancy lifestyle, then I’m not sure what that says for the rest of us.”

“I just don’t have that talent, I guess,” Mickey says. “Being able to talk easily to strangers.”

“Well you know what they say,” Ian quips. “You’ll never get better at anything unless you practice.”

Mickey’s looking at him intently, like he’s mulling something over, but before he can reply Sheila’s calling him from the other room. Mickey rolls his eyes and mutters a curse as he leaves, and Ian resumes his game with Svetlana and tries to ignore the curious glances she keeps throwing his way.

*

Lip has to work the next day, and Ian spends the first part of the morning pottering around in Sammi’s apartment. He’s feeling on edge from the lack of proper exercise while he’s been away, and he’s itching for a run, but he didn’t bring his running gear and so he settles for cleaning instead.

The intercom buzzes just before eleven, and when he answers it he’s greeted by Svetlana.

“Come down,” she says brightly. “We go to lunch.”

He takes a moment to think it over, before deciding that he is both hungry and stir-crazy, and he tells her to wait while he gets changed. He’s downstairs within ten minutes, and she grins at him.

“Come on, orange boy,” she teases. “I know a good place.”

She’s true to her word, showing Ian into a little Russian place three blocks down, and they make enthusiastic small talk while they wait for their food.

They’re more than halfway through the meal when Ian brings Jimmy up. It’s a question that’s been niggling at him since he met Svetlana the day before, and the chance of an independent opinion on his sister’s ex-boyfriend is too good to pass up.

“What do you know about Jimmy Lishman?”

Svetlana pauses with her fork halfway to her mouth, and frowns at him. “Mickey’s friend Jimmy?” Ian nods, and she shrugs. “I do not really know him. But he seems a nice man. Mickey cares for him very much.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Ian says. “It seems like he…takes care of him a lot?”

Svetlana nods. “They meet in college I think. Mickey says that Jimmy, he is soft. Easy target.”

“But I guess that sometimes you need to let people make their own mistakes,” Ian says, and Svetlana laughs.

“Not Mickey,” she says. “If Mickey cares about you, he takes care of you. That’s how he is.”

“That’s a good trait to have,” Ian says quietly, and he means it. He might never have seen that side of Mickey, but he admires it, can relate to it. He thinks about how defensive he is of his own family, how much it hurts to see them struggle, and for the first time he feels like maybe he and Mickey have something in common.

“You know,” Svetlana is saying, and Ian focuses back on what she’s saying. “Just to show you, there was a girl Jimmy was with. Mickey say that she is bad news, bad family. Mickey thinks that she was looking for money. I think Mickey take care of that for Jimmy. Made it go away.”

Ian blinks at her, his throat suddenly tight. All he can see is Fiona’s face, her eyes red from crying. “That’s a hell of an interference,” he says, his voice choked. “How could Mickey know that she was bad news? Maybe she really liked Jimmy?”

Svetlana shrugs. “I only know what Mickey tells me. I don’t know about the girl. I just know that he persuade Jimmy to leave her.”

Ian’s stomach clenches. “Well,” he says, fighting to stay calm. “Maybe Jimmy didn’t like her all that much then, huh?”

“Maybe no,” Svetlana says. “But if so, makes it less of a challenge for Mickey to make him leave, yes?” Her voice is light-hearted, like it’s funny, like it doesn’t matter, and Ian feels sick, feels angry, feels sad, can’t pick one to settle on and so they all swirl through him at once until his stomach is churning.

“I—I have to go,” he says, pushing his chair back and pulling notes blindly out of his wallet. Svetlana squints up at him as he presses the money down onto the table, her face twisting in concern.

“Are you ok?” she asks, her voice worried and Ian nods.

“I’m fine,” he manages to get out. “I just…I think maybe I’m coming down with something. Probably nothing. I just— I need to go.” He steps round the table, rushes out of the restaurant and then runs all three blocks back to Sammi’s, his mind racing and only able to form one thought.

Mickey had broken Fiona’s heart.

*

He cries off dinner at Sheila’s that evening, tells Lip he has a bad headache brewing. He feels almost guilty at the intense look of concern his brother gives him, wishes that every tiny ailment he reports didn’t turn into a maybe-possibly-bipolar thing, but he’s fairly certain he can’t face dinner with Mickey Milkovich and have either of them come out of it unscathed. And if he’s honest, he does have a pounding headache.

He finds some mindless trash to watch on television, and he’s almost dozing off on the sofa when the buzz of the intercom rouses him; he groans and stretches and then slopes across the room to answer it.

“ _It’s Mickey_ ,” floats through the handset, and Ian’s stomach clenches painfully. “ _Milkovich_ ,” Mickey adds, as though Ian knows dozens of Mickeys and needs it clarified. He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs and then buzzes Mickey up. He immediately wishes he hadn’t, thinks of several retorts he might have given instead, but then it’s too late and there’s a hard rapping at the door of the apartment.

Mickey strides past him like he’s on a mission, full of purpose, and Ian lets the door swing shut, trying to hide the renewed rage he feels at the sight of Mickey’s face. He follows Mickey towards the living room, almost crashing into him when Mickey suddenly stops short and turns to face him.

“Your, um, your—Lip,” he says, like he’d momentarily forgotten the name of Ian’s brother. “Said you were sick.” He narrows his eyes at Ian, leans forward a little bit to peer at his face. “You ok?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Ian says, as he moves past Mickey into the living room. The bite in his voice is mostly unintentional, but it’s worth it for the momentary confusion that crosses Mickey’s face.

Ian sits down on one of Sammi’s expensive sofas and gestures for Mickey to do the same; Mickey moves into the room like he has the intention of doing just that but then stops short, turning to pace across the room instead. He crosses back and forth a few times, stopping every so often to look across at Ian. He’s chewing at his lip, looks almost nervous, and the feeling is contagious. Ian’s leg starts to tremble a little, just enough so that his foot picks up a rhythmic motion against the floor. He wishes Mickey would just say whatever it is he came to say and leave.

Mickey pauses again, looks right at him. There’s a strange intensity in his eyes, and he opens his mouth, takes a breath like he’s about to say something, and then closes it again, pulling his lip back between his teeth and crossing the room several more times. Ian’s foot starts tapping harder.

“I—” Mickey says and then stops, stops moving entirely and starts rubbing at his mouth with his thumb. “Look,” he says, dropping his thumb down and pushing his shoulders back. “I’ve tried, everything I can, not to do this ok? But no matter what, I just—” He throws his hands up in a vague gesture of defeat and Ian opens his mouth to ask him what the fuck is going on but Mickey holds his hand up and takes another deep breath before continuing. “No, will you just. Fuck. Just let me speak. I—I think that. There’s something about you, and I—” He stops again, rakes his hands through his hair. “I admire you, ok? I really do, I have pretty much since we met. I like you a lot.”

Ian’s mouth drops open in astonishment, but if Mickey notices he doesn’t acknowledge it; if anything he seems to be on a roll now that he’s started. “And I mean,” he continues. “It goes without saying that me being here goes against everything, against my family and my friends _and_ my better judgement, but I’ve tried to stop myself feeling this way, and nothing is working. So, I was wondering, if you—if you and I—if we could maybe go out or some shit like that.” He stops, his eyes darting about the room before finally flicking up to meet Ian’s. They’re strangely open in a way that Ian hasn’t seen Mickey look before.

There’s anger rushing through Ian, the kind that feels like it’s about to explode out of him, but it’s swiftly followed by the sudden fear that that maybe he’s done something to make Mickey feel this way, that somehow he’s led Mickey on. That’s what he does, after all, or used to at least. Made men feel like he was interested, like they were special enough to receive his attention. That had been his life. Maybe he’s not as free of it as he thought.

“Um,” he says, and his voice sounds strangely hoarse. He clears his throat, takes a breath and tries again. Mickey’s looking at him expectantly, waiting for an answer, and Ian clenches his fists as he tries to reign in his emotions. “I— No. Thank you. I’m sorry, if I’ve done something to make you feel this way, if I’ve— If I gave you the wrong idea. I honestly didn’t mean to.”

Mickey blinks at him. “That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna say?”

There’s another surge of anger inside Ian, and he can’t hold it in; he stands up from the sofa and takes a step towards Mickey. “Well, what did you expect?” he says, and he tries to keep his voice calm but it doesn’t really work; it rises as he speaks until it’s almost a shout. “You come in here, tell me you like me against your better judgement or whatever, and you think I’m actually going to respond well to that? You want me to fall at your feet? How— Just how can you expect that?”

“What did _you_ expect?” Mickey retorts. “I’ve got responsibilities. People have expectations.”

“Oh, like what?” Ian says, and he knows he’s being harsh but he doesn’t care. “Nice pretty wife, couple of kids to carry on the family name?”

Mickey stares at him for a second. “Yes,” he says finally, as if that had been obvious.

Ian can’t help but look at him incredulously. “Are you fucking serious? You _do_ know that this is the 21 st century? No-one gives a shit about that stuff any more. You can do whatever the fuck you want, no-one’s gonna stop you.”

“Yeah, maybe that’s how it is for you,” Mickey says, and not for the first time Ian finds himself wondering, just for a second, what exactly there is going on in the world of Mickey Milkovich that he doesn’t know about. It’s fleeting though, because even as he thinks it, Mickey’s back on the defensive. “And that’s it? You’re turning me down because I see things differently to you?”

“No,” Ian says flatly. “I’m turning you down because how could I ever be with you, knowing what you’ve done? Knowing what you did to my sister.” Mickey flinches, and Ian laughs humourlessly. “What, you gonna deny that you did it?”

“Why the fuck would I deny it?” Mickey throws back. His voice isn’t raised as far as Ian’s had been, but there’s no mistaking the strength of feeling behind it. “I did everything I could to get Jimmy to leave Chicago, to forget about her. I was looking out for my friend, it wasn’t about her.”

“How can you say that?” Ian says in disbelief. “It wasn’t about her? How could it _not_ be about her?” Mickey opens his mouth, and Ian butts back in before Mickey even has a chance to speak. “You want me to tell you something about my sister?” he says, and he’s willing himself to stop talking, his mouth to stop moving, but he’s so angry now, so enraged by Mickey’s casual disregard for the hurt he’s caused Fiona that the words are falling out without him even meaning to. “My sister is worth ten of you, ok? She gave up everything for us, left school, worked any job she could get, stuff you can’t even imagine. She didn’t sleep, she helped us with homework and got us all through high school, wouldn’t rest until we were all passing every class. She pushed Lip to go to college. She took care of me when—” He cuts himself off just in time, can’t bear to let Mickey know even an inkling of what had happened, why Fiona had needed to take care of him when he was well past the age of needing it. “She took care of us,” he says instead. “For years. And she finally had something, someone good and kind who she really liked and you? You couldn’t let her have it could you?”

“But it wasn’t about her,” Mickey says again, but his conviction is nowhere near as strong this time. He shifts uncomfortably between his feet. “I was just doing what I thought was right.”

Ian just shakes his head, huffing out a noise of disgust. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Even before you did that, I had made up my mind about you, after I heard what you did to Robbie Pratt. How can you defend yourself against that?”

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up, and there’s a sudden anger that Ian hadn’t expected. “Are you fucking kidding me? What I— What _I_ did to Robbie Pratt?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Ian says forcefully. “I know exactly what happened there, how he came to you for help and you refused. How his whole family is ruined now and you could have stopped it.”

Mickey’s face darkens further and he stalks towards Ian, backing him up against the wall. Ian’s not sure if he’s shrinking under the strength of Mickey’s glare, or if the force of Mickey’s anger is making the shorter man grow somehow, but either way Mickey’s eyes seem just about level with his, dark and angry. “I don’t shit on my friends,” he hisses, and their faces are so close together that Ian can feel the heat of Mickey’s breath as it passes over his skin.

He sets his jaw, glares back just as intently, refuses to back down even for a second. “I don’t believe you,” he sneers right back, and then he plants his hands on Mickey’s chest and shoves him back _hard_. There’s a sound in Mickey’s throat that could almost be called a growl, and Ian gets a twisted sense of satisfaction from knowing that he’s pissed the other man off.

For a brief moment Mickey looks hurt, his voice quiet when he speaks again. “That really what you think of me?” Ian forces himself not to react, lets the impassiveness of his face answer the question, and Mickey’s own face hardens; he purses his lips and then pulls the top one into his mouth, baring his bottom row of teeth as he bites into it.

“Well maybe,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice now, hard and cruel. “Maybe if I hadn’t hurt your precious feelings by being so honest with you then maybe none of this shit would matter. Maybe if I’d come in here, made nice and flattered you. But I don’t bullshit. I tell it how it is, and how it is right here is that I have every reason to want to steer clear of you. You and me,” he says, gesturing between them. “We are worlds apart. Did you expect me to be happy about it, to throw a fucking parade?”

Ian swallows hard, wills away the feeling of humiliation that has tears burning at his eyes. “You’re wrong,” he says coldly. “You coming here like this only meant that I didn’t have to feel bad about turning you down. There is quite literally _nothing_ you could say to me that would change my mind, because from the very first time we met you have been nothing but rude, arrogant and dismissive of everything and everyone you came across. I had barely even known you a month before I knew that you were the last man on earth that I would _ever_ want to be with.”

Mickey doesn’t react, doesn’t even flinch, but there’s a muscle in his jaw that tenses and then he nods stiffly. “Well then,” he says, pulling himself up straighter. “Sorry to waste your time.”

He pauses, his arm twitching as if he feels obliged to depart formally with a handshake, and then he gives an almost unnoticeable shake of his head, turns on his heel and leaves.

The door slams behind him, and Ian sags onto the sofa, his heart pounding in his chest. All the energy has drained out of him like he’s just run a marathon, or gone three rounds in Lip’s old fight club, and his breathing is fast, too fast, as he tries to process what in the hell just happened.


	8. Chapter 8

The first thing Ian does is raid Sammi’s drinks cabinet. He’s not really supposed to mix hard liquor with his meds, but he’s pretty sure that right now his heart is beating fast enough for him to justify the sizeable glass of whiskey he pours as medicinal. He’s not sure which emotion he’s feeling strongest, anger, humiliation and confusion all seem to be taking their turn and he can’t focus on any of them long enough to process it properly. He takes two mouthfuls in quick succession, savouring the burn and then the fuzzy feeling that starts to creep in on the edge of his brain.

Anger wins out first as he grips the glass almost too tight; anger at Mickey, at himself, at everything. At the way that Mickey so casually insulted him, his family, and then tried to pass it off as some weird, back-handed compliment. At the way Mickey had so carelessly disregarded Fiona’s feelings, not even considering them as he worked to split her and Jimmy up. At the way that Ian feels like maybe he didn’t react strongly enough, the way retorts are flooding into his mind now as he thinks of all the things he _should_ have said. At the way that maybe he did something to invite this.

He downs the rest of the glass in one go, pausing a beat and then hurling it across the kitchen as the rage suddenly boils up and over. It shatters against the wall, leaves glass all over the floor, and the loss of control scares him more than a little. He puts the bottle away before he can be tempted to drink more, to blot it all out; he’s not giving Mickey Milkovich the satisfaction of sending him off the rails again. Then he sets about cleaning up the glass, sweeping the whole floor over and over until it’s like it never happened. He can almost pretend that it didn’t.

He takes a shower next, turning the water up almost as far as it will go and sagging against the wall, letting the water pound over his skin as his mind starts to wander. Unfortunately, what it wanders to is every interaction he’s ever had with Mickey, picking them apart as he tries to work out where on earth Mickey’s seeming hatred of him turned into…well, whatever _that_ had been tonight. He comes up blank, relives everything from _pity-bang_ and Mickey glaring at him while he stood dripping wet on Jimmy’s doorstep to awkward arguments over dinner and stilted conversations during pool games, right up to Mickey looking at him like dirt as Ian tried to stop Frank from robbing Jimmy’s house. He can’t think of one instance, one moment, that could have made Mickey possibly think there was something between them, could’ve given him the wrong idea to this level and yet…there must have been _something._ There had to have been.

He’s out and dressed when Sammi and Lip come back, Chuckie riding on Lip’s back and looking like he’s fighting to stay awake. It reminds Ian of coming home after days out when they were younger, him and Lip and Fiona carrying Liam and Carl and Debbie, and he yearns for a time when things seem so much simpler compared to now.

Lip deposits Chuckie into his room, and then collapses next to Ian on the sofa. “You ok?” he says, looking over at Ian with concern evident on his face. “How’s your head?”

“Fine,” Ian says. “Almost gone, pretty much.” It’s a lie, the headache that had been just enough to use as an almost-honest excuse to skip dinner at Sheila’s is now a full blown jackhammer pounding in his head and he can already tell that he’s not going to sleep tonight.

He doesn’t want to open up though, it feels like if he’s honest about that then the rest of it will come pouring out like an avalanche. He’s not entirely sure why he doesn’t want to tell Lip, why he’s so ashamed about Mickey coming onto him, why he’s keeping what Mickey did to Fiona a secret, but he just doesn’t want to talk about it. He figures that’s a good enough reason, for now.

He’s not wrong about the lack of sleep, although for the sake of appearances he goes through the motions of going to bed, lying on the floor of Lip’s room and staring at the ceiling. His mind churns all night, going over everything again and again, obsessively picking at details, rage bubbling away. He eventually gets up at just before five, figures that if he can’t go for a run, he can at least try and walk off his bad mood.

*

He gets back a little after seven, mind a little clearer, feeling a little more positive, and he’s intending to go up to the apartment, eat breakfast and take his meds and then try and get some sleep, but that all flies out of the window when he sees Mickey’s waiting outside the building, leaning against the wall next to the door.

Ian’s first instinct is to run, but then he forces himself to walk forwards instead, to push his shoulders back and make a show of not caring. He walks straight past Mickey, doesn’t look at him or acknowledge him, and he’s just about to put the key in the door when Mickey calls his name.

He pauses, doesn’t actually turn, but he sees Mickey push himself off the wall in the corner of his eyes, can sense him walking towards him. “Gallagher,” Mickey repeats, as if he’s not sure if Ian heard him the first time, and Ian sighs and turns to looks at him.

Mickey looks like he hasn’t slept any better than Ian did; he’s bleary-eyed and hasn’t bothered to style his hair, so it’s lying at odd angles all over his head. Ian feels vindicated, just a little, that this is affecting Mickey to even a fraction of the degree that it is him.

Mickey stands awkwardly for a minute, not really looking at Ian, running a hand through his hair and scratching at his head, and then he looks up, squinting against the early-morning sun. “You got some time to talk?”

“What do you _want_ , Mickey?” Ian says, his voice deliberately harsh, and Mickey blinks at him.

“I’m not asking you to change your mind about anything, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Good,” Ian says, unimpressed. He turns to lean sideways against the door frame, crossing his arms. Mickey doesn’t say anything for a moment, and Ian raises a questioning eyebrow. He just wants to get this over with before the rage returns, before he does something he might regret. He’s about to give up and go inside when Mickey speaks again.

“There’s just some shit I want to straighten out, ok? You owe me that much.”

“I don’t owe you _anything_ ,” Ian exclaims. “It was your fucked up decision to come over here last night, to say all that shit.”

Mickey holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “OK, whatever. But there’s stuff I need to set right, either way. Can we— Is there somewhere we can go to talk? Coffee maybe?” Mickey looks strangely awkward, rubbing his thumb across his lip as he talks. Ian blinks at him, and then frowns, pulling his eyebrows together as he looks sceptically at Mickey. “I mean it,” Mickey says, looking him directly in the eye. “All I’m asking is for you to hear me out, nothing more.”

Curiosity gets the better of him. “OK. But you better make it quick. _One_ coffee, and then I’m gone.”

*

They find a coffee shop with unsurprising ease, and Ian’s grateful for the fact that it’s mostly empty. They buy their drinks—Mickey tries to pay for both and Ian turns him down point blank—and then sit across from each other at a table that’s probably meant for four, but doesn’t feel as intimate as the tiny tables designed for two. Whatever Mickey had said about this not being a rehash of last night, Ian’s not in any rush to give him ideas. 

There’s an awkward silence for a minute or so, and then Ian gestures across the table at Mickey. “You said you wanted to talk, so talk. One coffee, like I said.”

Mickey nods, and takes a deep breath. “So, um. Last night, you accused me of some stuff. And I’m not saying it was all untrue, but some of it you’re wrong about and I think you should at least hear my side of things.”

Ian’s unimpressed. “So you _didn’t_ convince Jimmy to leave Fiona then?”

Mickey frowns, and then he sets his mouth in a thin line. “No, that I did. Although, it wasn’t quite as simple as you make it out to be, there were extenuating circumstances—”

“That meant you had to break my sister’s heart?”

“ _No_.” Mickey’s getting visibly frustrated and Ian’s kind of enjoying seeing him squirm. It’s less than he deserves, but Ian’s happy to take whatever retribution he can get on Fiona’s behalf. “I knew Jimmy liked her, ok? That was pretty obvious right from the start, but Jimmy’s got a habit of getting infatuated with things, that’s just what he does. So it didn’t seem like a big deal, not until later. I figured it’d just burn out, like most of his shit does. But then I started to realise that it was more than that, this time. That he really liked her.”

Whatever superior feeling Ian had been feeling, it quickly dissipates as anger replaces it. “What, and that was such a bad thing?”

“Not on its own,” Mickey says with a shrug. “But I watched them together, and it didn’t seem to me like she felt the same way about him.”

Ian makes a noise in his throat, thinks back to how Fiona had agonised over her feelings for Jimmy, the way she’d been so afraid to let him in. The way she’d been proven right, in the end. “Easy for you to say,” he says, taking a mouthful of coffee and then leaning back in his chair, arms folded.  

“No, I mean it,” Mickey says, his tone insistent. “I’m not just saying that because that’s what I wanted, ok? I watched her, how she was with him. She was nice enough, all smiles and good nature, but she really didn’t seem like she was in it for the long haul.  And that’s before you add in all the other shit, the stuff with your dad at Jimmy’s party, the way your brother and sister were behaving every time I saw them. It was just a bad idea for him, all round.”

“I don’t think that was your decision to make.” Ian’s voice is cold, his throat tight. He thinks back to the party, remembers the burning shame as he and his siblings near enough dragged Frank out kicking and screaming. The last time Fiona had seen Jimmy.

“Yeah, well Jimmy’s my friend. I look out for my friends, and it wouldn’t be the first time I had to deal with some chick sniffing around for money.”

Ian laughs, dry and humourless. “You think she was after his _money_?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Mickey says again, a defensive tone creeping into his voice. “Anyway, he had to go back to New York unexpectedly that week. When he did, me and Chip set about making clear to him just what a bad idea the whole thing was. It didn’t take much; he was actually pretty easy to convince that she wasn’t into him the way that he was her. He wanted to break it off himself, in person, but that would have been a bad idea, for all sorts of reasons. Chip said he’d take care of it.”

“Oh, he took care of it alright,” Ian says, starting to lose control of the rage he’s been keeping leashed up. “He turned up at the clinic with some secrecy agreement to make sure she wouldn’t sue them. Really thoughtful of you both.” He pushes his chair back, stands up. “Well, if that’s all then—”

“Wait.” Mickey stands up too, reaches out to grab Ian’s arm and then stops and pulls back before he makes contact. “That wasn’t— It was the other thing, actually. About Robbie.”

Ian hesitates, and hates that he wants to hear Mickey’s version of events enough to stay. “Make it quick,” he says as they both sit back down, and Mickey nods.

“I don’t know what he told you,” he says. “And I’m not gonna ask. I just want to put it to you from my side of things.”

“OK,” Ian says, sitting up straight in his chair now. The atmosphere between them is even colder than it had been to begin with, and Ian feels the need to retain at least an appearance of control.

“Well, we grew up together, dunno if he told you that. Our dads were good friends, not sure how they met but for as long as I can remember our families spent a lot of time together.  Weekends, vacations, all sorts. Robbie’s got a younger brother, I’ve got a younger sister, so me and him always ended up hanging out together. We were close, y’know? Like brothers, maybe.”

Ian leans forward and takes another drink of his coffee, bites back the remark that’s brewing about how he already knew that.

Mickey barely pauses for breath, the story flowing out of him easily. “So, um, when we started to get older, we didn’t see so much of each other. They moved out of state for a while, and we all kind of drifted apart. But when we did get together, something was different. _He_ was different. I heard his dad talking to mine a few times, saying he’d fallen in with a bad crowd. My dad said that was just a bullshit excuse but—” He stops and shrugs, then takes a drink of his coffee before he continues. “Whatever it was, Robbie was drinking, hardly going to school, failing all his classes. His parents tried everything, grounded him, tried to stop him seeing his friends, even put him into some super strict boarding school, but that just seemed to make him worse. By the time I graduated high school he was into some pretty bad shit—he’d been arrested for possession a couple of times and his parents had paid for him to go to rehab to try and keep his record clean. It went on like that for years, this thing of him being clean, and then falling back off the wagon, fucking stuff up and his parents bailing him out. I could never figure out how they could afford it all, it had to cost a fortune, but it turned out it was all coming out of their company.”

Ian has to consciously keep the look of shock off his face, but he feels it like a punch to the gut. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, the possibility dawning for the first time that maybe Robbie hadn’t been entirely honest with him. That maybe, on this count at least, Ian might be the one who’s wrong.

If Mickey notices Ian’s reaction, he doesn’t stop to acknowledge it. He seems eager to get the story told as quickly as possible. “So, of course when all the markets went to shit, they were in a really bad position already, not that I knew that. First I heard was when they went into receivership, and I called them up to see if I could help. It was too late by then; they were on borrowed time as it was. The company folded and they were left with pretty much nothing.”

“He said that he asked you for help,” Ian says faintly, struggling to fit this new information with the Robbie that he knew. It didn’t seem to mesh at all.

“Figures,” Mickey says, smiling wryly. “Yeah, he came looking for money a few times that year, before they went under. He knew I’d just got access to a chunk of money from my trust fund. Told me it was for some business venture he need investment for. I gave him what he asked for, $5k each time, and I never saw it again. He told me it hadn’t worked out, but it’s more likely that he blew it on drugs and partying. He certainly didn’t use a cent of it to help his parents.”

There’s a strange look on Mickey’s face, somewhere between anger and regret, and Ian’s suddenly hit with the certainty that he isn’t lying about any of this. It’s different to how it felt when Robbie gave his version, when he’d just believed his friend without much of a question. Now he desperately wants Mickey to be lying, wants that friendship he’d established with Robbie to be based on truth, but the more Mickey tells him, the less he can believe it.

“He came again, after the company went bust. I’d set his parents and brother up with jobs in one of our subsidiaries, and I figured he was after one for himself, but it was just more money he asked for. I asked him what it was for, and he came up with some bullshit excuse. I told him I couldn’t just keep giving him money every time he asked. He was nice enough at first, but when he realised I was serious and wouldn’t be talked round, he got pretty angry and stormed out. I tried to call him a couple of times, but in the end I just figured that was the end of our friendship, you know. Not that we had been much more than acquaintances for a while anyway. I just figured we wouldn’t be seeing each other again. And we didn’t, for years after that.” Mickey pauses, looks at Ian for a minute. “Let me make something clear, ok? This next part has to do with my sister, and it’s something that I have spent a lot of time and money keeping quiet. I’m hoping I can trust you to respect that?”

“Of course,” Ian says softly.

“OK,” Mickey says with a nod. So, about eighteen months ago, my sister went missing. She was in her third year of college, all going well, and then she just disappears of the face of the earth. Didn’t call me, didn’t return my messages or pick up my calls. I knew something was up, but the cops were having none of it. ‘Lack of evidence’ or whatever. No proof that something was going on, but I knew. Me and Mandy have always been close, ever since we were kids. The way things were, we had to be—” He stops suddenly, as if he’s betrayed a confidence that he didn’t mean to. For a brief moment, a look of what Ian can only describe as panic passes over his face, before Mickey gets control of it and continues.

“Anyway, we’ve never gone that long without contact, even if we’re out of the country. It just doesn’t happen. So I hired an investigator, who eventually managed to track her down and give me a location. When I got there, she was a mess. Off her face on god knows what, and looking like she hadn’t eaten in weeks. Robbie was there with her, about as wasted as she was, although not so much that he didn’t think to run as soon as he saw me. I was more worried about Mandy at that point anyway. I took her home and paid to get her into some fancy rehab centres until she sobered up. She was a mess, all bony and her eyes sunk in. She stayed there for a month, and I did everything I could to keep it out of the press—got a court order, paid off witnesses, you name it, I did it.”

“Fuck, Mickey,” Ian says, and it comes out almost like a breath because he had not been expecting this at all. Hadn’t been expecting the way Mickey’s face went soft when he talked about his sister, or the way his jaw clenched as he told Ian what Robbie had done to her. Hadn’t been expecting for Robbie to be capable of something like this.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, flicking his eyebrows up. “But, she got better, got herself clean again and went back to school. She told me afterwards that he’d just turned up to see her out of the blue, made out like it was some big reunion and how they should really celebrate. Of course, what he was really after was her trust fund—fucking prick literally showed up two days after her 21st birthday, making out like he was there to celebrate with her. She knew we weren’t speaking any more, but I’d never told her why, didn’t see the need to, so all she saw was an old friend wanting to do something nice for her. Got what he wanted there; they blew a fair chunk of her money in just a few weeks. I guess on top of that, he saw it as revenge on me, mixing Mandy up with all that shit. Could have fucking killed her.” His jaw clenches again, and then Ian can almost see him swallow his anger down and force a smile. “Anyway, that’s what happened. Think whatever you like, but at least you got the truth.” He stands up, gestures at Ian’s long-since-empty cup. “One coffee, right?”

“Mickey—”

“No, it’s fine. Like I said, I wasn’t here to change your mind. And hey, for what it’s worth. If I got it wrong about your sister, the way she felt about Jimmy, then I’m sorry if she got hurt. It was never my intention, I can promise you that.” He smiles, tight and almost sad. “Be seeing you, Gallagher,” he says softly, and then he turns and walks away.

*

Ian doesn’t see Mickey or Svetlana again for the rest of his visit; whether by luck or design they leave the same day that Mickey came to tell him about Robbie, and Ian doesn’t hear about it until that evening when they go to Sheila’s. The senator seems a bit put out about it, but Ian’s beyond grateful. Although he misses Svetlana’s company, he’s willing to accept her absence as the price of not having to face Mickey again. He has no idea what he’d say, were he face-to-face with the other man again, how to express his disgust at Robbie’s actions as he now knew them to be, his regret at believing Robbie’s version of events without question, but also the still-burning anger at Mickey’s part in the destruction of Fiona’s happiness, the pride he had taken in it. Part of him thinks that it’s probably best that he never sees Mickey again; he’d likely feel compelled to apologise and Ian doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction, regardless of the fact that he’d been wrong about Robbie.

He leaves himself a couple of days later, steeling himself for another twenty-four hours of being tightly crammed into a bus. Lip comes with him to the station, and this goodbye feels somehow less awkward and final than the last.

“Seems like you’re doing ok for yourself,” Ian teases him, and Lip grins ruefully and rakes his hand through his hair.

“Could be worse, right? I got a decent job, place to stay.”

“Lovely senator friend,” Ian adds with a cheeky grin, and Lip laughs.

“Yeah, I reckon she’s the price I gotta pay. It’s mostly worth it.”

“As long as you’re happy,” Ian says, and he means it. He’s starting to see what Fiona meant; this job wasn’t for him, would have driven him around the bend, but it seems to be suiting Lip just fine.

“Yup,” Lip says. “Just make sure you come back to visit again, ok? There’s only so many dinner parties I can cope with alone.”

“Deal,” Ian says, and then he grabs Lip, hugs him hard.

“Right, get on before it goes without you,” Lip says with a grin. “And say hi to everyone for me.”

Ian nods, boards the bus and finds his seat in just enough time to wave to Lip before it sets off. He settles back in his seat, closes his eyes, and tries to forget that this week ever happened.

*

The house is quiet when he gets home, and he finds Fiona in the kitchen with a pile of bills and a beer. She greets him with a grin and a tight hug, like he’s been gone months instead of a week. He grabs a beer of his own and sits down at the table with her as she finishes sorting the bills into the order they need paid in.

“So, c’mon,” she says, when the last one’s in place. “How was your trip?”

“It was…good,” he says, and he can tell from the way her eyebrows knit together that she’s not convinced. “No, it was fine,” he says hurriedly. “Just…Sammi’s a lot to deal with, y’know?”

“Oh yeah,” Fiona agrees, and leans forward. “But what about _Senator Jackson_?” she says, mimicking Sammi. “Don’t tell me you were there a whole week without a meeting with her?”

“Yeah, no chance,” Ian says with a grin. “Dinner nearly every night. She’s…kinda like you’d expect a politician to be, I guess. Lots of opinions about stuff she knows jack about.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Fiona says. “And what else, you get to hang out with Lip? How’s he doing?”

“He’s doing great, actually,” Ian says. “You were right not to stop him going. He’s in his element out there. We did some tourist stuff, but he had to work some of the time. And—” He cuts himself off before he can let slip that Mickey was there, but Fiona’s already looking at him questioningly. “Mickey was there,” he says resignedly. “So we had to cut the second day short.”

“Mickey? Well, that sucks,” Fiona says. “Hope he didn’t put a damper on your trip.”

Ian sighs. “Not really,” he says. “But we talked a little. He…came on to me.” Fiona’s eyebrows shoot up before she can stop them, and Ian laughs. “Don’t worry, I turned him down. Not like I’m interested in him, right? But some stuff came out and…I think maybe I was wrong about Robbie.”

“Really?” Fiona asks, and Ian just nods. He doesn’t feel like sharing details, even if he hadn’t promised Mickey to keep it a secret. He’s too worried that stuff about Jimmy might get let slip along with it. “Well then,” Fiona said. “You’ll not be too bothered that he’s left town then?”

“He did?”

“Yeah, he came by a couple of days ago looking for you. Said he’d had something come his way that he couldn’t pass up, that he was heading out of town for a while.”

Ian’s not expecting the sheer sense of relief that washes over him at the prospect of not having to face Robbie, the realisation that he’s not stuck with the choice of either pretending everything is fine or having to make it clear that he knows now what Robbie’s done. Instead, he can just wipe Robbie out the same way he intends to do with Mickey, like none of it ever happened. He can just go back to college and pretend the summer was just a washout in which nothing out of the ordinary occurred. The thought’s pretty appealing.

“Cool,” he says, when he sees that Fiona’s waiting for a response. “Anyway, how are things here?”

She shrugs. “Same as always,” she says. “Debbie’s pretty much ready to go next week. Carl’s still being weird. Liam’s still not an ounce of trouble. Maybe I’m finally getting it right?” She grins, and Ian thinks that maybe it looks a little less fake than it had the week before.

“And you?” he asks, and maybe the grin starts to look a little fake again.

“Oh, I’m good,” she says. “Work’s ok. I’ve, um, got a date tomorrow.”

Ian can’t help but smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, like it’s a decision she’s only making just now. “I figure, I gotta move on, right? Fuck Jimmy. Who needs him?”

Ian raises his bottle, clinks it against hers. “I’ll drink to that,” he says. “To new starts.”

“New starts,” she echoes.

New starts, Ian thinks to himself. He can work with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so I'm sorry that I changed up the letter to a conversation, but I wrote it as both versions and this one just worked a whole lot better. Writing letters in character is super hard, who knew?


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GAHHHHH I am so sorry about how long it's been. Darn real life, it's been so busy. I know this is a shorter chapter than usual, but this is where I felt it needed to break. Next one will potentially be another longer one.

The next few months pass uneventfully, by Gallagher standards at least. Debbie heads off for Michigan the week after Ian gets back from D.C., and Ian heads back to college himself a few days later. It’s a little strange being back there, with everything that’s happened over the summer, to go back to this other life that he has, but in many ways he relishes the simplicity and routine. He goes to class and he writes assignments and picks up shifts in the coffee shop on campus, and little by little he files the summer away until it’s like a distant memory rather than something that happened only weeks earlier.

Fiona calls him most weeks, keeps him updated on how Carl and Liam are doing—Carl’s keeping his grades up, despite still disappearing at odd times, and Liam’s just started second grade and is doing really well in maths—but she’s more evasive about her own well-being. He manages to get out of her that work’s still ok, she’s angling for a promotion in the new year, but despite her going on a string of dates with different guys, she still sounds sad when she talks about Jimmy.

“It’s just—” she says, in a semi-drunk conversation in late September. “I liked him, more than any guy I’ve ever been with, y’know. I thought he was… _different_. Ugh, I’m such a fucking idiot.”

Ian makes all the right noises, as best he can, tells her she’s not an idiot and wishes he could tell her how he knows that for sure. She sends him an apologetic text message the next morning, blaming the alcohol, and Ian grips his phone almost too tight to resist the urge to just tell her the truth. He would, if he thought it would make a difference, make it easier, but at this point all he can see it doing is opening up old wounds. So he keeps his secrets, hopes that she’ll move on, that Veronica has a handle on this given that she’s actually there and he isn’t.

He bites the bullet in early October, goes to see his doctor about his sleeping problems. The first offer is of sedatives, which he turns down point blank, and so instead they set about adjusting his mood stabilisers. It takes three attempts to get it right, the first leaving him holed up in bed for a week and the second having the opposite effect. The third attempt makes him feel indescribably _flat_ for a fortnight, but just as he’s about to go back and ask for a fourth different prescription, suddenly it’s like everything clicks into place again, and just like that he’s found the right combination, for now at least.

Lip and Debbie mostly stay in touch by email, and he likes that better than Fiona’s phone calls in a lot of ways because he can just reply when he feels like it, or when he’s stored up things to tell them. Lip’s are always full of tales of Sheila and Sammi, which Ian finds he can laugh at when he’s not the one having to put up with them; Debbie’s are much more detailed descriptions of everything she’s doing, her roommates, her classes, the various campaigns and protests she’s getting herself involved in. Ian enjoys those even more than he does Lip’s, feels a strange sense of paternal pride at his sister’s first steps into proper independence. It’s good to know she’s getting a chance to do it properly, the way that he didn’t.

*

The first week of the winter break, he goes to New York with Clayton. They do this once a year or so, ever since the winter afternoon years before when Lip and Ian had shown up unannounced on their uncle’s doorstep and confronted him with the, as yet unacknowledged, distinct possibility of him being Ian’s father.

Ian knows that the "favourite nephew" shtick is mostly misplaced guilt on Clayton’s part, some deep-seated shame that he should have said something, done something, got Ian out, as if there was ever any chance of the things that have happened to Ian being prevented by a big house and a fancy car. Ian lets him though, lets him alleviate his absent-father guilt in a way that never rocks the boat with Clayton’s _real_ family, never means that his wife has to admit that her perfect life might not be so perfect, that her kids might have a secret bastard half-brother tucked away in the closet. Ian’s never wanted that, either to ruin Clayton’s life or uproot his own, so it’s just a nice bonus really, that every now and then he gets to go on a trip like this without feeling like he’s betrayed his siblings.

This particular trip, his uncle tells him ruefully on the plane, coincides with some business Clayton has to do at his law firm’s New York office; Ian tells him it’s no big deal, and means it, but Clayton’s overly apologetic and says he’s booked them into a better hotel than usual to make up for it, so that at least Ian will have use of the facilities.

Ian shrugs it off—their usual standard of hotel seems pretty luxurious to him anyway—and doesn’t really give it any more thought, until the cab draws up in front of the huge, white building and he sees the name of it printed on the awnings outside. _The Pemberley._

He has a sudden, vivid flashback to a moment months before, sitting in the kitchen at home with Fiona and researching the fate of Worldwide Cup, to get some validation for a story that, at the time, he had no reason to disbelieve. He’d googled Mickey Milkovich at the same time, looking for clues to piece together, and had read about Mickey’s father, how he’d been the son of a Ukrainian immigrant and how the family had built up a hotel chain from next-to-nothing.

And now Ian’s standing in front of their flagship Manhattan property, staring up at it in shock while Clayton pays the cab driver.

He must have gone white, or made a face or something, because suddenly Clayton’s peering at him, concern all over his face.

“Ian? Are you ok?”

“Hmm?” Ian has to take a couple of breaths, his heart pounding, before he can respond. “Just…we’re staying here?”

“Yeah,” Clayton says brightly, and it’s clear he’s misunderstood the cause of Ian’s anxiety entirely. “Look, I know it seems intimidating, but I’ve stayed here before and inside—”

“No,” Ian interrupts him. “It’s not that. It’s just…I know the guy who owns this place.” Clayton tries, and fails, to hide his surprise that Ian should know someone of such means, and Ian’s too worked up to be insulted about it. “He’s that guy I told you about last summer, the one who was friends with Fiona’s boyfriend,” Ian explains. “We don’t get on. Really, _really_ don’t get on,” he says, and Clayton’s surprise turns into a frown.

“Well, what does that matter? Not like he’s going to be here himself, right?”

Ian loosens and then tightens his grip on his duffle bag. “No, I guess not.” He’s still unsure though, it still feels like some sort of unwritten wrong that he should stay here, after everything.

“Well then,” Clayton says with a beam, throwing his arm over Ian’s shoulder and guiding him towards the door. “Let’s just enjoy ourselves.”

*

The woman on the desk smiles as she checks them in, chatting easily to Clayton about their journey and their plans for the week as Ian takes in his surroundings. Clayton’s right, at least, that inside the hotel is much less imposing. The lobby’s bright and airy, with high ceilings and sweeping archways leading back to where Ian presumes the restaurant and bar are. There’s a portrait hanging on one of the walls, tall and imposing, of a stern looking man who, Ian learns from the plaque underneath as they pass on their way to the elevator, is Mickey’s father. He’s not sure why, but he feels like he wants to give the picture a wide berth.

He declines Clayton’s offer of dinner and so they part company in the hallway, making plans for breakfast the next morning. Ian heads to his room, and then has to suppress a gasp when he gets inside. It’s big, bright like the lobby downstairs, and looks almost untouched, surfaces almost sparkling and pristine white linen on the bed. He feels almost like he’s making it dirty just by standing in it. He takes a few minutes to explore it fully, taking in the view of the skyline out of the window and then peering into the bathroom. He’s pretty sure it’s more ornate than even the one at Jimmy’s house, and he decides on impulse to take a shower before he heads to bed. It’s _bliss,_ hot and steaming with the pressure just right, and he stays in for longer than he’d intended before he feels the tell-tale ache of tiredness he’s started getting since his meds got straightened out.

He heads back out to the room once he’s out and towelled dry, takes it in again for a moment. There’s a splash of colour on the walls in the shape of a painting on the wall, but the rest of it is muted light woods and white, and when he turns to look at it, he assesses that the bed’s probably big enough for three or four people. He pulls the sheets back and then sags onto it with a sigh, and then he half considers spending the whole week sleeping—he’s never felt a bed like it. He’s asleep before he can give it any more thought.

*

Ian wakes early the next morning, but not in the way he had over the summer with his mind racing and full of thoughts that he couldn’t get a hold on. Instead, he wakes slowly, blinking into awareness, pressing himself further into the mattress and then stretching out like a cat. His sleep’s been better like this for barely a month, and he’s still not quite used to it, still feels surprised every time he wakes and feels well-rested.

He makes a pot of coffee—it’s actually pretty decent for a in-room machine, better than the machine they’d had in the Gallagher house when he was a kid—and takes his meds with the cup he pours himself, and then he decides to head downstairs to check out the gym. The leaflet sitting on the table signs its praises, and he could kind of do with sticking to his routine.

He finds it deserted except for a fellow early riser swimming lengths in the pool. Ian’s got no intention of disturbing someone else’s routine, and swimming isn’t really his thing anyway, so he passes by the pool and heads for the gym instead. It’s pretty well-equipped for a hotel gym—although he supposes it’s one of those ‘get what you pay for’ kind of deals—and he works up a good sweat as he rotates around the room, letting his mind empty as he focus on counting his exercises. When he’s done he showers quickly in the communal showers that lead back to the pool, just enough to rinse the sweat off. He’s pretty sure that nice as it is down here, the shower in his room is better and he intends to spend a good while in it when he gets back upstairs.

He’s riding a pretty decent natural endorphin high and not really paying attention to his surroundings as he pulls the door open, and so he nearly collides with the man coming through from the pool before he notices him. The recognition takes a minute, his mind going blank as he takes in the semi-clothed form of the man in front of him, and when it hits him he actually has to take a step backwards.

Mickey’s staring at him looking about as shocked as Ian feels, his mouth hanging open slightly in surprise and the colour draining from his face until he’s even paler than usual. He’s got a towel around his waist, but his skin is still wet, his hair mussed and dripping a little, water running down his neck and his chest and— Ian takes another step back, pulls his gym bag in front of him. _Well, shit._

“ _Ian?!_ ” Mickey says, eyebrows pulled together and gripping the towel tightly around himself as if he’s worried it might suddenly gain a mind of its own and fall off.

“Mickey!” Ian says, completely redundantly, as he feels his face start to get hot. “I—I didn’t think you would be here, I— If I’d known I—”

Mickey seems to regain a little of his composure, although he’s still got a protective grip on the towel. “No, it’s fine, I wouldn’t usually be. It’s just the gas is out at my apartment, and I had some work to do anyway so I figured I’d be as well just staying here for a couple of days.” His ears have turned red, Ian notices.

“Ah, ok,” he says, trying to get a grip on his sudden, inexplicable panic.

“And you, you’re, um. You been staying here long?”

“Last night,” Ian says quickly. “I’m just here with my uncle. He’s on a, um. A business trip, asked me to tag along. See some sights, do some shopping.”

“Right, yeah. It’s a good time of year for it,” Mickey says with a nod. Ian wonders absently when they became the kind of people who made small talk with each other. “And you—you’re ok?”

“Yeah,” Ian says, and he can’t help but smile a little. “Yeah I’m good.”

“Good,” Mickey repeats. “And your family too?” Ian nods, and Mickey stands awkwardly for a moment, chewing at his lip. “Good,” he says again.

Ian backs away again, gesturing awkwardly towards the door that leads back out to the hallway. “Well, I’d better…um…I need to…”

“Yeah,” Mickey echoes. “Yeah, me too.”  He steps to the right just as Ian steps to his left, and then they go back again, and then Mickey stays still so that Ian can pass.

Ian moves back past the pool as quickly as he can without breaking into an actual run, cursing under his breath as he starts to process everything. He could kick himself for having agreed to stay last night, after realising where they were. Of course it wouldn’t be that simple, of course Mickey would be here, of course it would be just another example to Mickey at how beneath him Ian was. _Fuck._

As soon as he hits the corridor, the embarrassment of what just happened hits him full force and he breaks into a run and then takes the stairs two at a time, until he’s three floors up and probably safe. He waits for the elevator, sagging against the wall, and then takes the agonisingly slow journey back to the floor he and Clayton are staying on, tapping his foot impatiently. He hits his own room first, stuffing the previous day’s clothes into his duffle bag and then heading back down the hall to hammer on the door of Clayton’s room.

Clayton takes far too long to answer the door, finally opening it wrapped in a towel having clearly just gotten out of the shower. It barely registers for Ian, the need to get out of here so strong that all he can focus on is the rushing in his ears.

“Ian?” Clayton’s face creases in confusion. “What’s wrong? I thought we were going to get breakfast at eight?”

“We need to leave,” Ian gets out in a rush, and then taking another gasping breath. “We can’t stay here, we need to—”

Clayton frowns, looking down at Ian’s bag on the floor, and then reaches out to squeeze Ian’s shoulder. “Hey, just calm down, ok? Is this about what you were saying last night, about knowing the owner? Because you know, that’s no reason why—”

“He’s _here_ ,” Ian says, his breathing still erratic but starting to slow. “I just saw him, I— I just need us to leave, ok?”

“Ok,” Clayton says, a little too agreeably. “Ok, I understand.” It’s plain to Ian that Clayton _doesn’t_ understand, but before he can try and explain without actually explaining, the elevator dings behind him and he turns to look despite himself.

He’s not sure how he knows who’ll step out before it happens, but when Mickey emerges he’s not even surprised at all. Mickey’s clearly gotten dressed in a hurry in his attempt to catch up with Ian, his hair isn’t any drier than it had been downstairs and his sneakers are unlaced; he’s got a determined look on his face that changes into something that looks suspiciously like _relief_ as soon as he catches sight of Ian.

“Hey,” he says, and there’s relief in his voice too until he looks down and takes in the bag at Ian’s feet. “You’re leaving?!”

It takes a moment for Ian to find his voice, to figure out how to explain it without coming across like a total lunatic. “Yeah, I just— I think it’s best, right?” He can feel Clayton staring holes into him.

“Something wrong?” Mickey asks, and he straightens up. “Whatever it is I can get it straightened out.”

“No,” Ian says. “Nothing like that, everything’s great here, it’s just that like I said, if I’d known you’d be here, I—”

“And like _I_ said, it’s fine,” Mickey says mildly, and then he looks up to meet Ian’s eyes. “You like it then? The…” He waves his arms out to demonstrate.

“Yeah,” Ian says, and he feels strangely calmer as he smiles. “I like it a lot.”

Mickey smiles back at him, a grin that’s open and unguarded. “Good,” he says. “I’m glad.” He looks past Ian then, seeming to notice Clayton for the first time. “Mickey Milkovich,” he says, holding out his hand. “You must be Ian’s uncle?”

“Yes,” Clayton says, reaching out to shake Mickey’s hand. “Clayton Gallagher. I had some business in town, thought I’d bring Ian along.”

“Ah, so business not pleasure then,” Mickey says with a laugh, and Ian does a double take. Never, in all the time he’s known him, has he seen Mickey be _friendly_. But here he is, talking jovially with Clayton like he’s known him forever, offering recommendations for food when Clayton says he hopes they’ll find some time for fun too, and then offering to take them on a tour of the city if they have time.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to pass,” Clayton says. “I’m booked up all week. But maybe Ian would—?” They turn to look at Ian expectantly, and he swallows.

“Yeah,” he says, painting on a smile. “Great.”

“Meet you downstairs at ten?” Mickey says, and when he looks at Ian his face is suddenly soft, his voice hesitant.

“Yeah,” Ian says again, and he wonders if his voice really sounds as flat and disembodied as it does to him.

“Ok, see you then,” Mickey says with a smile, and then he heads back towards the elevator, casting another long look at Ian before it arrives and he steps inside.

When Ian turns back to Clayton, his uncle’s looking at him in confusion. “That’s the guy you were talking about? The one you don’t get on with? The guy you told me last summer was a total asshole who thought he was better than everyone else?”

“I’m as surprised as you,” Ian says faintly. “He’s not— He wasn’t like that before.”

“Hmm,” Clayton says. “Well, I wonder what’s changed?”

Ian doesn’t answer. He’s wondering the exact same thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so first off it's been quite a while since I read the novel so I can't remember exactly how this part goes in the original, but Mickey swimming was just me being indulgent and wanting some kind of call back to the Colin Firth lake scene in the 1995 version (which is the definitive one in my own humble opinion. Ahem) and also because Mickey all wet and awkward? YES PLEASE. 
> 
> Also, theunforgivingminute on Tumblr made an awesome cover art for this fic so please go and check it out here: http://theunforgivngminute.tumblr.com/post/102435838339 because it made me so happy last month when I saw it!
> 
> Thanks for reading and for all the comments and kudos! You can find me at allidon.tumblr.com


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this, two updates in a fortnight?!
> 
> Heh, I split this chapter down again because it was getting overly long. Again. I'll be honest and say I really have no idea when the next one after this will be - I do have some written that was originally for this chapter, but I'm also hideously behind on uni work and my kids are off school for two weeks, so it just depends when I can find time.
> 
> I'm never any good at figuring out when I should place warnings, but in this chapter there is one use of a homophobic slur and a brief mention of child abuse.

Ian half-considers not going downstairs. More than half, if he’s honest. He’d kind of dealt with the whole Mickey thing, with everything that had happened in Washington, and he’s not entirely sure he’s ready to open that up again. It’s pride, really, that pushes him to do it. He can’t bear to look like he’s afraid, for Mickey to think he can still get to him after all this time. So he showers, styles his hair, picks out his least worn jeans and one of his nicer shirts, and then he heads to the elevator, and he walks out into the lobby like he’s got all the confidence in the world.

Mickey’s waiting beside the reception desk, leaning against it and glancing up at the portrait of his father every so often. Ian stops to watch him for a minute, noting the way that the fingers on his left hand are fidgeting. If Ian didn’t know better, he’d think Mickey was nervous.

He takes deep breath and then strides forward again, until he’s just behind where Mickey’s standing. Mickey jumps as he hears him, and then turns around to face him. He’s chewing his lip, and now Ian thinks he  _definitely_  looks nervous.

“Hey,” Mickey says, and the confidence he tries to put into his voice is belied by the sharp intake of breath he makes before he speaks. “So, um. Where did you want to go?”

Ian’s got a list, just like he’d had in Washington, but something makes him leave it in his pocket, makes him think that he’ll get far more out of this if he chooses a different tack. “I’m not really bothered,” he says, maybe a little too casually. “How about you pick out the places you think I ought to see?”

Mickey seems confused for a moment, stands with his brow furrowed like he’s trying to figure it out, and then he seems to move past it, the lines softening out of his face as he shrugs and then waves his hand towards the door. “OK then,” he says. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

*

They go to three museums on the first day, and stop at a tiny little café for lunch where all of the staff seem to know Mickey by name. Mickey greets them all with a friendly smile, and tips the waitress well over the standard percentage. Ian’s rapidly becoming convinced that New-York-Mickey is an entirely different person to the one he met before.

Ian’s not sure if Mickey knew, or guessed, that he prefers museums over traditional sights, or if it was just luck, but either way he’s kind of pleased and despite his misgivings, he enjoys himself. They go to the natural history museum first—Ian supposes it isn’t a particularly surprising choice but it’s one he enjoys nonetheless—but after lunch Mickey picks out two smaller places that Ian’s never heard of. One’s full of bizarre little artefacts like shrunken heads and bizarre looking fossils, and the other seems dedicated to supposedly hard to find military memorabilia from various periods of time.

They spend the day in a weird cycle of talking and not talking, but somehow it never takes on the awkwardness that Ian’s expecting. They start up conversations at random intervals, sometimes to point out something interesting and other times just small talk when the silence gets too long, and by the end of the day Ian finds his resolve starting to soften. He’s really not sure how he feels, but what he does know is that probably every assessment he’s ever made about Mickey is under question.

“Thanks,” he says, when they’re back in the lobby at the hotel. “I had fun.”

Mickey smiles. “Good,” he says. “I’m glad. It’s a great city, you know. I like showing it off.”

Ian smiles back. “It is,” he says. “And I’m sorry, you know if you had plans, or work or anything.”

“Nah,” says Mickey. “That’s the perk of being the boss. I just reschedule everything and no-one can say shit.” Ian can feel the look of shock that shift onto his face, and Mickey laughs. “I’m kidding,” he says. “I’ve got a meeting on Thursday that I can’t shift, but the rest of it’s stuff I can do whenever. So, um. I’m free tomorrow, if you wanted to see some more stuff?”

“Yeah,” Ian says, and he’s surprised by how easily the agreement comes. “Yeah I’d really like that.”

*

“Show me your favourite place,” Ian says the next morning, when he meets Mickey in the lobby again. “Like, if you could only ever visit one place. Take me there.”

He’d spent probably longer than he’d care to admit thinking about where he might ask Mickey to go today. He  _did_  have a list, but really it didn’t seem like any of those places were as important as his sudden, burning desire to learn more about Mickey. Eventually, he’d decided that this was the tack to take, to put it all in Mickey’s hands again, but with a new, important caveat.

Ian’s not sure where he expected to end up. He’s been kind of hit out of left field by this new,  _different_  Mickey, and it’s like all the things he thought he knew have all flown out the window. He’s pretty sure though, that no matter how much thought he put into it, he’d never have been able to predict them starting out at the big art gallery; in fact, there’s a pretty large part of him that’s convinced Mickey’s joking, right up until the reach the desk and Mickey hands over his membership card along with the money for Ian’s entrance.

By the time they’re halfway round the first collection, Ian’s certainly not even entertaining the thought of it being a joke. Mickey’s looking at the exhibits almost reverently, pointing out the bits he likes, adding little titbits of information that aren’t on any of the display cards. It’s increasingly obvious that he comes here a  _lot_. Ian finds that interesting, in a weird way, like it’s the first glimpse he’s getting of Mickey the person, instead of Mickey the business man, or Mickey the asshole looking down on everyone, or Mickey the guy who fucked around with Fiona’s relationship, or even Mickey the big brother defending his sister. Mickey just never struck him as the arty type, and Ian has to wonder what else there is that he doesn’t know about him.

They’ve been there a good couple of hours and are halfway round the contemporary collection when Ian makes the decision to prod a little further. Mickey’s telling him something about the painting they’re looking at, or maybe the artist; Ian’s not quite sure because he’s distracted by watching Mickey, the way he’s so animated when he talks about something he’s actually interested in, the way he uses his hands to punctuate his words, the almost-smile as he finishes his little anecdote, and then looks across at Ian to see his reaction. Ian nods and grins, and then looks up at the painting again.

“I like this one,” he says, and he means it. He’s starting to see why Mickey likes it here.

Mickey’s almost-smile turns into a smile, and then he glances away, back up to the painting and then down to his feet before looking back up at Ian. “Yeah, it’s one of my favourites too,” he says softly.

“You ever, um. Do anything like that?” Ian asks, the words coming out in a rush. “Anything arty, I mean. Drawing, painting?”

The smile falls a little, stays painted on Mickey’s mouth as it leaves his eyes. “Used to,” he says. “Not any more.” He turns, moves to the next display, and Ian simultaneously wants to both kick himself and push for more. He does neither though, just follows Mickey, asks questions about things, listens to the answers and watches Mickey talk.

*

When Ian meets Mickey the next day, he’s accompanied by a dark-haired girl who Ian quickly assumes must be his sister. They’re embroiled in a heated discussion, both leaning in as they speak and gesticulating wildly. As Ian comes up behind Mickey, he gathers it’s something to do with a work thing that Mickey wants Mandy to do.

“Hey,” Ian says, a little hesitantly, and Mickey whirls round, hands still mid-gesture.

“Hey,” he echoes, and then he drops his hands like he’s just been caught dipping into the cookie jar. “I didn’t— Are you early?”

“Nope,” Ian says, as Mandy stifles a laugh. “Right on time.”

Mickey checks his watch. “Shit,” he says, and then he jumps when Mandy clears her throat behind him. “Yeah, I know you’re there,” he says, and his voice is sort of harsh and soft all at the same time. Ian’s reminded of the tone Svetlana used when she talked about Mickey. “Mandy,” Mickey says. “This is Ian. And Ian,” he adds, gesturing between his sister and Ian. “This is my sister, Mandy.”

Mandy steps forward, taking a minute to look Ian up and down. She looks a lot like Mickey, Ian thinks, the same dark hair and shrewd blue eyes. She looks like she dressed for a business meeting of some sort, smart skirt and pointy heels. “So,” she says with a grin. “This is the famous Ian—”

“ _Mandy!_ ” Mickey hisses furiously, and she laughs before reaching out to give him a gentle shove in the shoulder.

“Oh, cool it Mick. You’re just worried I’m going to tell Ian all your darkest secrets.”

Mickey mutters something under his breath that Ian doesn’t quite catch, and before he can ask Mickey’s getting called away by someone wearing the distinctive hotel uniform, and he’s left alone with Mandy.

“Don’t worry,” she says, grin still in place. “I’m just trying to wind him up. I promise, I’m really quite nice.”

“You’ll have to teach me some tricks,” Ian jokes, and Mandy’s grin widens.

“Oh, I’m going to like you,” she says. “I can tell already.”

Ian’s not sure why, but he kind of feels the same.

“Is there something going on?” he asks. “Seemed like you were arguing?”

“No big deal,” Mandy says. “Mickey wanted me to cover something for him that just came up, because apparently he has important plans that can’t be changed.” She shoots him a sly glance before continuing. “And I said that it wouldn’t be proper for me to do so, not being a  _proper_  employee of the company, and that I’d happily take over his big plans instead.” Her eyes are twinkling, and Ian laughs when he connects the dots and gets the point she’s making.

“You’ll be my tour guide for today then?” he say, and she nods.

“Yep,” she says, as Ian spots Mickey making his way back over. “You’ll just need to give me ten minutes to change. Heels aren’t really ideal city footwear.”

“She told you then?” Mickey says sourly when he rejoins them.

“Yeah,” Ian says, and although the disappointment is mostly feigned—he’s actually looking forward to getting to know Mandy—he is kind of genuinely sad not to spend more time with Mickey today. He knows tomorrow’s off the table too, Mickey’s non-negotiable Thursday meeting, and Friday seems a long time to wait.

“Where’ve you been so far?” Mandy asks, breaking into Ian’s stream of thought. He’s pretty glad of it, because he’s not sure now is the time to start assessing when he started feeling like two days was too long to go without spending time with Mickey, rather than the opposite.

Ian reels off the list of places Mickey’s taken him to over the last two days, and then Mandy’s lip curls in disgust and she wheels round to punch Mickey on the shoulder. “You asshole,” she says, although her voice is light enough for Ian to be mostly sure she’s being light-hearted, even when Mickey glares at her and swipes out in an attempt at retaliation. “You have two days in the city with him and you don’t take him to  _any_  of the big name places?”

“Yeah, that’s because those places are boring as shit,” Mickey growls, rubbing at his shoulder.

“Not to  _tourists_ ,” she says, rolling her eyes like it’s obvious. “You were really gonna let him go home without seeing them? How’s he gonna tell people he came to New York and didn’t even see the Empire State Building, or the Statue of Liberty?” She turns back to Ian, grins at him like they’re co-conspirators or something. “Don’t worry Ian,” she says, drawing out his name teasingly. “I’ll take care of you.”

Ian can see Mickey out of the corner of his eye, looking increasingly aggravated. It’s kind of amusing, but then Ian remembers how much he actually enjoyed the places Mickey had taken him too. “No, it was fun,” he says, and tries not to feel happy about the way that he sees Mickey visibly relax. “I kinda prefer that kind of thing. It’s a shame you can’t come today, Mickey.”

“I’m sorry,” Mickey says, sincerely. “This just came up, and she’s right really, it needs to be me who deals with it.”

“I’m always right,” Mandy says, and then she leans over to kiss Mickey on the cheek. “Later, Mick. Ian, I’ll be back in five, ok? Just wait here for me.” She heads towards the elevator, heels clacking.

“She doesn’t work for the company?” Ian asks, turning back to Mickey.

“Nah, she works for some publishing company,” Mickey says, waving his hand. She’s technically on the board though, and she helps out sometimes. She was here for a meeting first thing, that’s why all her shit is in a room upstairs.”

“Cool,” Ian says with a nod. “Hope it’s not a big issue you’re having? Seems like you weren’t expecting it.”

“Not really,” Mickey says with a shrug. “We got a couple of subsidiaries aren’t doing so well, and the shares dropped overnight. Just needs a bit of repair work, but numbers are my thing, not Mandy’s. I just didn’t really want to work today, that’s all. I don’t like ditching on people."

“Don’t worry about it,” Ian says, and not for the first time this morning he’s wondering when reassuring Mickey Milkovich became such a priority of his. “This sounds important, and Mandy seems happy to take over. I’ll be fine.”

“OK, cool,” Mickey says, although he still doesn’t seem entirely happy about it. “Have fun, seeing all the boring shit.”

“I will,” Ian says, and he grins at Mickey.

Mickey laughs, and there’s a strange feeling in Ian’s belly.

*

Mandy’s as good as her word, and drags Ian all over the city like they’re working on a bizarre box-checking exercise. She’s good company though, so Ian doesn’t mind; instead he finds himself increasingly relaxed until they’re travelling on the metro, crushed together and laughing like old friends. For all Mandy’s similarities to Mickey, Ian learns quickly that she’s different too. They laugh the same, but Mandy’s laugh is quicker and easier; they both look at him like they can see all his secrets, but with Mandy it makes him feel safe, like she’d guard them with her life and that’s all that matters. With Mickey, it’s more like he’s opening himself up, giving the other man ammunition that he’s never sure if he might use but that he wants to give him anyway. It’s a prospect that really ought to scare him, that  _did_  scare him before. Now it’s almost exciting, but not exciting enough that he can’t see the comfort in the way that he feels with Mandy. She reminds him of Fiona, more than a little. Fiercely protective, but loves too fast, too strongly; tough exterior, but leaves herself open at the same time.

“I have to ask,” she says, when they’re on the ferry to Liberty Island. “Did he  _really_  just turn up and proposition you? Like in a Victorian novel?”

“Yep,” Ian says with a laugh. “Well, he didn’t ask for my hand in marriage or anything. But yeah. Totally out of the blue.”

Mandy grimaces. “God, I’m embarrassed for him.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Ian says. “Although, he was pretty shocked when I turned him down. I don’t think he expected that.”

“He wouldn’t,” Mandy says, looking thoughtful.

They’re back on the metro when she brings it up again.

“He must’ve meant it though,” she says. “If he actually came right out and said it.”

“Huh?” Ian says, twisting his body to try and look at her.

“If he said he liked you,” she clarifies. “I mean, he’s like the least emotive person I know. If he said he liked you, he must’ve meant it.”

“You think?” Ian says, and he casts his mind back to the summer, tries to remember Mickey’s exact words.

“Yeah,” she says. “Mickey doesn’t do shit like that. Ever."

Well he did, Ian thinks. He did.

*

Mandy invites Ian and Clayton to dinner on Thursday. “It’s no trouble, honestly,” she says, when Ian hesitates. “We do it every year. The Lishmans come and the Pratts—” She cuts herself off, and Ian’s pretty sure that none of the Pratts will be there.

He and Clayton arrive at four, bearing two bottles of wine that Clayton had paid well over the odds for at the bar in the hotel. Ian’s not sure why, but he’s nervous as Clayton rings the bell and they wait for someone to answer.

“Nice of your friends to invite us,” Clayton says, and Ian wonders if his being friends with the Milkoviches is the closest he’s ever gotten to Clayton being proud of him.

When Mandy answers the door, Ian’s pretty sure that Clayton’s disappointed that there isn’t a butler.

“Hey,” she says, and her face lights up like Ian’s her favourite person in the world. “Come on in, everyone’s just getting settled.”

She directs Clayton to a room on the right, and then she pulls Ian into the kitchen with her. “Avoid the lounge,” she says. “They’ve done nothing but talk work all day and I’m bored out of my mind.”

“Duly noted,” Ian says with a grin, and then crosses to look in the pan bubbling on the stove. “What’re you making?”

“Goulash,” she says with a grin. “It’s my mom’s recipe. I make it every year.”

“It smells amazing,” Ian says, and Mandy nods.

“It’s good,” she says. “I’m pretty sure it’s the only reason Chip comes along. Well,” she says, pausing. “That, and a break from his wife. Anyway,” she says crossing the kitchen to the fridge. “I’ve got starters ready done, and the bread will get baked later. Really I’m just hiding in here so they don’t rope me into their arguments about politics and fucking share prices.”

She grabs beers from the fridge, hugs them against her with one arm and opens them with her other hand. “Thought I’d save you from them too,” she says as she offers one of the bottles to Ian.

“And I am  _eternally_  grateful,” Ian says, clinking the neck of the bottle against hers and then taking a swig.

“You’d better be,” she says. “Mickey’ll probably have my ass later.”

Ian doesn’t answer. He thinks before a minute, before asking the question he really wants to ask.

“Mandy?”

“Hm?” She looks up at him, smile already in progress.

“Can I ask you something? About Mickey?”

She frowns, eyebrows knitting together. “Like what?” she says, suspiciously, and just like that it’s like she changes from Ian’s-friend-Mandy to Mickey’s-sister-Mandy. Ian gets the feeling that he should probably choose his next words carefully.

“It’s just— He took me to the art gallery the other day. I asked him to take me to his favourite place in the city, and that’s what he picked.”

“OK,” Mandy says, slowly.

“And I mean, it’s obvious that it really was. His favourite place, I mean. He was just— He was different there.” He frowns in frustration, because he’s not really sure what he means. Mandy’s looking at him strangely, the way she’d looked at him the day before when she asked about what happened in Washington.

“He really took you there?” she asks, and Ian can’t think of a word to describe her tone other than bewildered.

“Yes,” he says. “And we were talking about a painting, and I asked him if he did stuff like that. He said he used to.”

Mandy frowns, and then she looks at him for a long minute.

“He did,” she says finally.

“But he doesn’t any more?”

She doesn’t answer, just rests her elbows on the counter, thinking.

“Wait here,” she says, eventually.

When she comes back, it’s with a sketch-pad in hand.

“Don’t tell him I showed you this,” she says, sliding the pad over the counter. “He’d kill me if he even knew I had it.”

“Scout’s honour,” Ian says, making the salute with his right hand as he uses his left to pull the pad towards him and turn it the right way. He flips it open, and it lands a couple of pages in. He’s struck, almost instantly, by just how skilled the sketches are, how much detail there is. The first few pages are obviously practice work, collections of little line drawings that all fit a theme. He flicks through a little further, finds more obviously personal stuff. A sketch of Mandy laughing; one of a dog, mid-jump. A couple that were clearly drawn in anger, harsh, thick lines that form almost unrecognisable shapes. Mickey’s good, alright. He’s  _really_  good.

He looks up at Mandy and finds her watching his reaction. “I don’t understand,” he says. “These are really good. Why would he just stop?”

She shrugs. “Wasn’t what Dad wanted,” she says, like it explains everything. “What Dad wanted was a son to carry on the family name, take over the business. Not some ‘faggy artist’.” There’s a bitter edge to her voice as she finishes, and it’s obvious to Ian that the slur is a direct quote from her father.

“Oh,” he says quietly.

“Yep,” Mandy says, and she raises her eyebrows in a motion that looks just like Mickey. “Mickey tried. I think maybe he thought if he got good enough, then maybe Dad might change his mind. Even applied for some big art school. When he got in, Dad— Well, he wasn’t happy. He and Mickey got into a big argument, and then Dad started hitting him and…” She trails off, shrugs as though the rest is obvious, and Ian supposes that it probably is. “He stopped drawing after that,” she says. “Went to business school instead, like Dad wanted. Came back and worked for the business, like Dad wanted. And then Dad died and Mickey took over like there was no other option.”

“I don’t get it,” Ian says, frowning. “Surely if your dad was gone, then he could do whatever he wanted.”

She shrugs. “That’s just Mickey. All he ever wanted was for Dad to be proud of him. I guess he’s still trying.” Ian gives a wry smile, and Mandy’s face hardens. “Don’t do that,” she says. “Don’t pity us. Our dad might’ve been an asshole, but he was still  _ours._ ”

“No, I wasn’t,” Ian says. “I mean, I get it. My parents… I wouldn’t even know where to start. I get wanting to make them like you, or even care about you. I just—” He stops before he can finish the sentence, because he’s ashamed of the fact that he’d somehow assumed that money shielded people from stuff like that, that Mickey and people like him had so much privilege that they couldn’t understand what life was like for people like Ian. Now he’s starting to think that he and Mickey have more in common than he’d ever imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably mention here that I am a lowly Brit whose knowledge of NYC was mainly gleaned from bad TV shows and google. Please don't hold it against me.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading, and I hope that you all have a lovely holiday, whichever one (if any) you celebrate.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out that all I need in order to write is to have a shit-ton of uni work that I'm putting off. It's not a strategy I'd recommend.
> 
> Discussions of bipolar disorder and some mentions of suicide in this chapter.

Ian finds Mickey outside, a little while later. It’s cold out, and Mickey’s wearing a hat and gloves and he’s got his coat collar turned up against the wind. He’s smoking, looking up at the sky and deep in thought.

“Hey,” Ian greets him, pulling on his own gloves, and Mickey looks down and across at Ian almost at once. “Wondered where you were hiding.”

“Could say the same about you,” Mickey says pointedly, raising his eyebrows as he takes a final drag on his cigarette and stubs it out, flicking the end into a pot that’s perched on the corner of the half wall beside him.

“Yeah, sorry,” Ian says, with a sheepish grin. “Mandy got to me first.”

“Thought as much,” Mickey says. “She rope you into kitchen duty?”

“Nah,” Ian shrugs. “Something about avoiding talk about politics and shares.”

“Figures,” Mickey snorts, and then he meets Ian’s eyes. “So, you manage to find your way round the city alone today?” There’s a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Yes,” Ian says with a roll of his eyes. “I’m pretty sure I can navigate a few stores without someone to hold my hand.” OK, so he had gotten lost, but only that one time. And he’d got all the gifts he’d been looking for, so he’s pretty sure he can chalk it up as a win.

“Never said you couldn’t,” Mickey says with a smirk. “Although, I think I’d take the boring-as-shit board meeting I was stuck in over 5th Avenue two weeks before Christmas. It’s fucking scary.”

“Yeah, it _was_ pretty busy,” Ian agrees. “Nothing too bad though.” He pauses, and there’s silence between them for a moment before he changes the subject. “So, this is like your family home or something then?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Mickey says noncommittally. “It’s where me and Mandy grew up.”

“But you don’t live here any more?”

“Not really. Mandy does, but I prefer having my own place. Easier that way.” He’s casual in the way he shrugs it off, but Ian senses that there’s more to it than Mickey’s willing to give away.  He thinks about what Mandy had told him about their dad; it makes sense that Mickey wouldn’t want to stay here.

“Hey,” he says, shifting direction a little. “How come Mandy doesn’t work for the family company and you do?”

Mickey frowns at him. “Because she didn’t want to, that’s why.”

“And you did?”

The frown deepens, Mickey squinting at him like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on. “I guess,” he says, with a shrug.

“How come?” Ian presses. He’s not sure why he’s so pushy tonight, but he’s suddenly desperate for Mickey to open up, to tell him the same stuff Mandy did, maybe to tell him more than that.

“I don’t fucking know,” Mickey says, clearly exasperated. “I’ve got my job and she’s got hers, what the fuck does it matter?”

“It matters if you’re not doing what you really want to do,” Ian says.

Mickey stiffens, and shoots a narrow-eyed glare at him. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounded like,” Ian says, sticking to his guns.

Mickey’s silent for a moment, chewing his lip as he thinks something over. “Mandy put you up to this?” he asks. He’s suspicious now, peering in at Ian with his shoulders coiled up like he’s ready for a fight.

“ _No_ ,” Ian says. “She’d probably kill me if she knew I was asking, to be honest.” He’s not joking. He hadn’t missed Mandy’s protective attitude earlier on, and he’s pretty sure that she’d stop at nothing to protect Mickey, the same way Mickey would for her. The same way Ian would for his own siblings.

“Well then,” Mickey says, pulling back a little. “What the fuck is all this about?”

“The art gallery,” Ian says, improvising a little. It’s not a lie, not really. He’s had his suspicions since then, it’s just that Mandy’s already given him the confirmation that now he’s asking Mickey for. “When I asked about whether you used to do that kind of thing. Just seemed like maybe it was something you’d given up.”

Mickey takes two steps back, and then he swallows hard. “It’s not that simple,” he says, his voice quiet.

“It can be,” Ian says, insistently. “I mean, c’mon. If that’s where your heart lies Mickey then you gotta—”

“It’s. _Not. That. Simple_ ,” Mickey says again, enunciating as if he thinks Ian didn’t understand him the first time.

“You don’t get it—”

“No, _you_ don’t get it. Not everyone gets to do that you know. Just be whoever they want.” There’s something defeated in his tone, like it’s an argument he’s had with himself so many times already. Ian wants to shake him.

“But you _could_.” Ian realises too late that his voice is raised, that it sounds more like he’s mad at Mickey than trying to make the point that he really doesn’t have to stick it out in a job he hates if he really doesn’t want to. He’s suddenly unsure though; thinks that maybe he _is_ mad at Mickey after all. He could have anything he wanted; it’s not as if he’s short on resources or opportunity. It just seems like such a fucking waste, all round.

Mickey’s looking at him like he’s lost his mind. Ian wonders if maybe he has. For the life of him he has no idea why this is suddenly so important.

“You could,” he says again, calmer this time. “Mickey, you can do whatever you want to. Get someone else to run the company, or delegate stuff more, or sell it even. You don’t have to just stick it out because that’s what your dad wanted—”

Anger flashes in Mickey’s eyes as he advances back towards Ian. “You don’t know a fucking thing about my dad,” he says, and his voice is almost a growl, but there’s hurt there too, and Ian knows he’s gone too far. He takes a step towards Mickey, the apology already on his lips, and then Mickey’s right in his space and they’re both breathing heavily, and Mickey’s still glaring at Ian like he might tear him apart.

Ian kisses him.

He’s not sure what comes over him, why he does it, but by the time his brain catches up he’s got Mickey pressed up against the wall, tongue sliding into his mouth, and there’s heat coursing through him despite the cold. He’s got one hand on Mickey’s hip, pushing him back against the coarse brick work, and the other’s on his neck, gloved fingers against Mickey’s face, and then Mickey grabs a fistful of Ian’s coat and they’re rutting against each other until Ian can feel Mickey’s erection pressing up against his own through both layers of jeans.

They break apart, and Ian takes a step back as they gasp for breath. Mickey’s lips are swollen, an indent in the bottom one where Ian bit down on it, and his cheeks are flushed, his eyes wide and pupils blown. Ian rubs a hand over his face, through his hair, and then takes another step back.

“Shit,” he says. “Sorry. I— I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Oh,” Mickey says, and his voice is rough, as if he’s just remembered that it works. His breathing is still heavy, and it catches in his chest as he falls quiet.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Ian says quickly. “I mean I wanted to. Obviously,” he adds wryly, gesturing down at his crotch and then over at Mickey’s. “I just— I don’t do shit like this any more.”

“Oh,” Mickey says again, and his tone’s different this time, like he’s trying to understand even though Ian’s pretty sure that he’s making no sense.

Ian sits on the little half-wall, and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes as he tries to quell the panic that’s bubbling in his gut. He feels like he’s about to spill the mother of all secrets, and maybe that’s fair given how many of Mickey’s he’s been given this week, but the thought still has his stomach churning.

He senses, rather than sees, the step Mickey takes towards him and he makes a decision, takes a breath and then looks up.

“I have bipolar disorder,” he says, before he changes his mind. Mickey’s only reaction is a quick pull together of his eyebrows, and then he just waits for Ian to continue. “It’s under control now,” Ian says. “Mostly, anyway. But before, when I didn’t know what was wrong, I did a lot of stuff I shouldn’t have. I was reckless, impulsive. I have to be careful not to let that happen again.”

Mickey nods slowly, thinking, and then sits next to Ian on the wall. “Ok,” he says. “And this, what just happened. That was—?”

“Definitely impulsive,” Ian says with a laugh, and he’s relieved when Mickey laughs too.

There’s silence for a minute, and then Mickey looks across at him, rubbing his thumb over his lip. “So, um. How long?” he asks. “I mean, how long have you had it, or known about it, or whatever.” He stops, dropping his eyes for a minute. “You don’t have to say, if you don’t want to talk about it or—”

“No, it’s fine,” Ian says, cutting him off, and he’s surprised to find that he means it, that it _does_ feel fine. “It’s hard to say though, I guess. I mean, it’s genetic, so maybe it’s always been there?” Mickey nods, and Ian takes a moment to think over what he wants to say next. “But I think maybe it started after my mom died. She— She killed herself a few years ago. At Thanksgiving.”

“Shit,” Mickey says. “That’s rough, man. Sorry, I didn’t mean to drag stuff up.”

“You didn’t,” Ian says with a shrug. “It was a long time ago. Feels even longer than it is. She had bipolar too, and she didn’t always take her meds like she was supposed to. Frank didn’t really help there. She used to leave, sometimes for years, and then she’d come back like nothing had happened. And it’d be fine, until it wasn’t. Until she stole our money or wrecked the house.” He pauses, swallows away the lump in his throat that always seems to show up when he thinks about Monica, about the way she’d been, about how for the longest time he’d thought that he was going to turn out just the same.

“The last time she came back it was just the same as always. She played super-Mom, and then she was manic and stole all our money, got high with Frank, crashed the car with Carl in it and tried to palm him off as the driver. And then she was low, and she wouldn’t get out of bed, until Frank made her. And then she slit her wrists in the kitchen, and she was gone.”

Mickey reaches over and pats him awkwardly on the shoulder, and Ian has to stifle the nervous laugh threatening to bubble out. He sniffs, and then takes a deep breath to continue.

“After she died, it was hard for all of us for a while. It shouldn’t have made a difference really, she’d been gone so long that we worked better without her, but I guess her being dead was just different. Fiona was trying to keep on top of everything, and Frank was causing trouble. Lip was refusing to go to school, Carl and Debbie were acting out, it was a mess. I don’t think she even noticed that I wasn’t getting out of bed until I started staying up all night instead, and I guess she just figured that maybe I was getting over it.”

“But you weren’t?” Mickey’s voice is soft, unthreatening. It’s like he’s just talking to remind Ian that he’s there, rather than because the question needs answering.

“No,” Ian says simply. “I wasn’t. I was…really messed up. I did a lot of really stupid shit. But things levelled out again, and I thought I was ok. Then I stole Lip’s identity and joined the army.” Mickey blinks at him, as though he thinks he’s misheard somehow, and Ian laughs. “Honestly, I did. I think I was tired of waiting around to live my life how I wanted. That was the logic I told myself, anyway.”

“I’m guessing that didn’t work out,” Mickey says dryly.

“Yeah, turns out a manic 17-year-old isn’t really the ideal solider,” Ian says. “I went AWOL, and went back to Chicago. Slept rough for a while, and then eventually Lip found me and took me home. Fiona pawned a bunch of stuff and took me to a doctor, and that’s how we found out, although I think she’d already figured it out by then. I had to go to therapy for a while, and they put me on meds. Gave me all this lifestyle advice to keep me balanced. Took a while, but I’m mostly ok these days.”

“Except for making out with guys you hate in their backyard?” Mickey asks lightly.

“I don’t _hate_ you,” Ian says, smiling. “And it doesn’t mean I’m not ok. It just— I don’t like it when I’m reckless. When I’m not in control. It takes me back there, you know?”

“Yeah, I can get that,” Mickey says with a nod. “Makes sense.”

“And I’m sorry, for all that shit I said before. You were right. I don’t even know you really, it’s none of my business where you work, or what you do, or—”

“Look,” Mickey says, cutting him off. “You were right, ok? Yeah I used to draw and stuff, and I thought maybe I could do something with it. And maybe I could’ve. But that’s not how shit worked out. And maybe the business isn’t my dream or anything, but my dad, and my granddad, they worked their whole lives to build it up. I can’t just walk away from it. I _can’t_.”

“I get that,” Ian says. “Kinda admire it, actually.”

“Yeah?” Mickey asks, looking sceptical.

“Yeah,” Ian says. “Takes a lot to work hard at something when it’s not the thing you love.”

“I guess,” Mickey says reluctantly, and then looks across at Ian. “Takes more to lose your dream and not give up.”

Ian smiles. “Look at us,” he says. “Six months ago, who’d have thought we could actually have a civil conversation?”

Mickey opens his mouth to reply, but before he can say anything Mandy appears behind him. She looks between them for a moment, like she knows something’s shifted but can’t quite figure it out.

“Dinner’s ready,” she says eventually. “You two should get inside, it’s fucking freezing out here.”

*

Ian’s awoken the next morning by the sound of his phone ringing. He’s disoriented for a moment, blinking blearily at the screen until he makes out Lip’s name. He answers it just before the voicemail kicks in, and before he’s mumbled out a greeting Lip’s talking over him.

“About fucking time. I’ve been calling you for hours man.”

Ian makes a sound that’s half-conciliatory and half-confused. “I was sleeping,” he says, and then quickly pulls the phone from his ear to check the time. It’s eight-thirty, which is later than normal for him but not that bad.

“Yeah, well it’s fucking important,” Lip says.

Ian sits up, the urgency in his brother’s voice leaving a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. “What’s happened?”

“Carl’s in jail.”

As Lip talks, the sick feeling in Ian’s stomach grows until he’s full-on nauseous. He’s not sure if it’s anger or fear or guilt or all three, but he’s not sure it even matters. He hangs up, promising Lip that he and Clayton will be on the next flight home, and he’s pulling his duffle onto the bed when there’s a knock at the door.

It’s Mickey, hair damp and dressed smarter than his usual smart-casual. He smiles when Ian opens the door, and Ian recognises the blue shirt he’s wearing from the disastrous dinner at Jimmy’s last summer.

“Hey,” Mickey says, sounding a little like he might have practised a few times. “I thought maybe we could get breakfast or…” He tails off as he takes in the look on Ian’s face, the half-packed duffle bag on the bed behind him. “What’s going on?”

Somehow, the sick feeling grows even more, and Ian stands in shell-shocked silence until Mickey takes it upon himself to step inside the room and close the door behind him. Ian sinks down onto the bed, staring at his hands, and Mickey clears his throat.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You doing ok there?” Ian swallows and nods, but somehow the nod turns into a shake. “Didn’t think so,” Mickey says. He heads to the fridge, grabs a bottle of water and opens it, handing it to Ian. Ian takes a drink, on auto-pilot more than anything. Mickey shifts awkwardly. “Is this your bipolar thing?” he asks. “Do you need a pill or something?”

Ian laughs despite himself; a weird, choking sound that on second thoughts might be more of a sob. “That’d be too easy,” he says, his voice tight. The look of concern on Mickey’s face deepens. “I’ve just had some…some bad news, that’s all,” Ian continues. “About my brother, Carl. He’s 17. He was arrested last night, possession with intent.”

“Fuck,” Mickey says, and Ian nods.

“Yeah. Lip—” He has to stop, choking on the words that are coming next. “Lip says it was something to do with Robbie, I’m not sure how.” A shadow passes Mickey’s face at the mention of Robbie’s name, an almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw, a darkening of his eyes, and Ian can't help but think about how this will only serve to cement his views about Ian’s family, about _Ian_. About how all the progress they’d made this week will be for nothing now; how whatever Ian had been thinking, been _feeling_ , won’t matter any more.

“OK, did your brother say anything else?” Mickey seems almost brusque now, collected and business-like as he quizzes Ian.

“Um, that the DA wants to charge him as an adult. He’s almost 18, and he’s already got a record. They want to make an example of him.” Ian sniffs, squeezes his eyes closed for a minute. He thinks about how hard Carl’s worked this year, how close he’d been to having his record wiped. “This is my fault,” he says softly. “I should’ve told them about Robbie. I should’ve warned them. I just— I had no idea he’d do something like this. Carl— Shit, Carl could go to jail for _years_ , Mickey.”

Mickey crouches down in front of him, grips Ian's shoulders hard. “You couldn’t have known,” he says firmly. “Fuck knows why that guy pulls half the shit he does, but there’s no way you could’ve known, Ian.”

Ian nods, and then stands up. “I need to, um. I need to go home,” he says. “Clayton’s a lawyer, and all Carl’s got just now is the shitty public defender they assigned to him last night. Lip says that maybe with a good lawyer we could get the sentence reduced.”

“Of course,” Mickey says. “You need me to get you fresh tickets? I can call now and—”

“No,” Ian says quickly. Whatever else happens, he’s not going to leave New York somehow indebted to Mickey. “I’m pretty sure Clayton can sort it all out, I just— I need to call him and then pack my stuff. We need to be going as quickly as we can.”

“OK,” Mickey says. “Well, in that case. I’ll just get out of your way then.”

“Thank you,” Ian says softly, and Mickey nods, and then he turns and leaves without another word.

Ian watches after him for a moment. He’s pretty sure that he’s never going to see him again, and the thought bothers him far more than it should.

He shakes it off, because right now he can’t do that, can’t think about Mickey and missed chances. Instead, he calls Clayton, and then he finishes packing, and he thinks about Carl and he wonders how the hell they’re going to get out of this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that concludes the little NYC mini-arc that was supposed to be one chapter and ended up as three. I know I expanded on this section a lot, but it was important to me that the time was used for them to kind of get to the root of each other's issues in order to move forward with a better understanding of each other. 
> 
> I really, really mean it this time when I say I have no clue when I'll have chance to update again, BUT those who know P&P will know we're kind of on the home stretch now. Maybe two more chapters?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry about the wait for this chapter. I know I said I didn't know when I'd be able to update again, but I honestly had no intention of it being this long. I started a new job at the beginning of the year and it's taken a while for me to get back on track and organise life and stuff. Thank you all for being so patient <3 I know I've been really bad at replying to comments the last couple of chapters, but I hope you all know that I truly appreciate every single one.
> 
> Enjoy!

By the time Ian and Clayton arrive at the Gallagher house that evening, Lip’s already there. He and Fiona are huddled together at the table in the kitchen table, reading through a file of some sort. Fiona looks tired, like she’s barely slept—she probably hasn’t, Ian thinks—but her face lights up when she sees Ian, and she wraps her arms around him tight, cradling his head as she pulls him close.

“Hey stranger,” she says softly. “Missed you.”

“You too,” he says, and then waves a greeting to Lip as she releases him. He turns to watch as she greets Clayton with a wary smile and offer of a drink, and the realisation strikes him that despite his relationship with Clayton, his siblings don’t know their uncle at all. Ian’s not sure how long it is since Fiona’s seen him, but he’s guessing long enough that she barely remembers. Clayton looks uncomfortable, eyes darting around the kitchen taking everything in, and Ian wonders if that old guilt’s rearing its head again. There’s a mean part of him that really hopes so, and a not-so-mean part that winces against the momentary disloyalty to his family home. As far as Ian knows, Clayton’s never actually been inside the Gallagher house, has never been near it in fact. Not when Ian was little, not all the times they were taken into foster care or the time they nearly lost the house, not even when Ian went missing and then came back all shades of messed up. Clayton’s always been this shadowy figure on the periphery of Ian’s life, and if Ian’s honest that's exactly where he liked him. Now, for the first time they’re relying on him, putting all their eggs into his reluctant basket, and Ian...Ian isn’t at all sure how he feels about that. Ian’s never really sure what he wants from Clayton if he’s honest, but it’s certainly never been a rescue and this feels a little too much like it for his liking.

He’s distracted from his thoughts when Clayton catches sight of the file on the table, and steps forward to take a look. He flips through the first couple of pages, and then looks across at Fiona, who’s over at the fridge getting beers.

“How did you get this?” he asks, brow furrowed.

“Ask Lip,” she says, nodding over at their brother.

Lip grins, although it’s a pale imitation of his usual smugness and doesn’t quite meet his eyes. He looks almost as tired as Fiona. “Swiped it off that public defender they assigned to Carl,” he says. “Kid looked barely old enough to graduate high school.”

Clayton frowns. “Well, it should give us a head start,” he says, flipping back to the beginning. “But I’ll need to get an official copy before I can actually use any of this.”

Lip shrugs. “Whatever. No-one would fucking tell me anything, and I wasn’t leaving that place without something to show for it.”

“Did you see Carl?” Ian asks.

“Fiona did,” Lip says. “Legal guardians only.”

“Only for a minute,” Fiona says. “Frank got there first, and by the time we knew anything they’d already done questioning him. They weren’t gonna let me in at all.”

“How was he?” Ian asks, hoping he doesn’t sound quite as anxious as he feels. It’s not like Carl hasn’t been here before, but this is so much bigger than anything he’s ever been picked up for before.

“He said he was ok,” she says, but from her tone it’s plain that she doesn’t really believe that. “He was putting a front on, same as always. This is just— God, it’s really bad this time.” She purses her lips and then pulls them into a thin line, and Ian knows it’s not just Carl that’s putting on a front. Fiona looks like she’s barely holding it together.

*

While Clayton starts on a more detailed read-through of the file, Ian huddles in the kitchen with Lip and Fiona, discussing the situation in hushed whispers.

“I don’t get it,” Fiona says. “He’d been doing so well, for months. Why would he go and fuck it all up?”

“Money?” Lip suggests. “Have you guys—”

“No,” Fiona answers quickly. “Since I’ve been working at the clinic things have been a lot better, even with Debbie gone. We’ve barely touched the squirrel fund, and Carl knows it.”

“Robbie,” Ian says, voice glum as he looks at Lip. “You told me this morning that Robbie had something to do with it.”

Fiona nods. “Yeah, when Tony called to tell me—can you believe that?” she breaks off to say, wrinkling her nose.  “I had to hear about this from Tony fucking Markovich? Anyway, he said Robbie was brought in at the same time. I don’t think he realised we knew Robbie though,” she says. “He probably wasn’t supposed to tell me that part.”

“It must be a mistake, right?” Lip butts in. “I mean, you and him were tight all summer. Why would he drag Carl into something like this?”

“Because he’s done it before?” Ian says, and Lip frowns.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he asks, and even though Ian knows it’s not him Lip’s angry with, he finds his back straightens almost automatically.

“It turns out that maybe Robbie isn’t thought he was,” he says, hoping it’ll be enough. One look at Lip’s face tells him it won’t be, and he can see the curious look on Fiona’s face out of the corner of his eye. He sighs. “When I was staying with you in DC,” he explains. “Mickey told me some stuff about Robbie that pretty much fits with what’s going on.”

“Mickey?” Lip looks baffled. “Mickey _Milkovich_? Since when do you pay any attention to what he says?”

“I just know he was telling the truth,” Ian says, because this is really not a conversation he wants to get into, not when he’s already desperately balancing all manner of conflicting Mickey-feelings. He doesn’t want to add Lip’s inevitable judgement into the mix.

“And you didn’t tell me about it?” Lip looks almost hurt now, and Ian would maybe feel bad about it if there wasn’t so much other stuff going on.

“I just didn’t think it was a big deal, ok? I was pissed about it, but when I got back and told Fiona she told me he’d left town so I sorta…forgot about it, I guess.”

“You _forgot_?” Lip asks incredulously, and Ian glances automatically at Clayton. If he’s aware of the raised voices—and how can he not be—he’s steadfastly refusing to acknowledge them, sitting with his back to them and shoulders hunched as he reads the file. “Mickey Milkovich—who, last time I fucking checked was certainly not someone to be trusted—told you that Robbie’s bad news and you just forgot?”

Ian bristles, and he takes a step towards Lip. “You don’t know what—”

Lip cuts him off, and turns on Fiona instead. “And you knew about this too? No-one think to fucking clue me in?”

“I didn’t know _what_ it was,” she says defensively. “Ian never told me what Mickey said.”

“Well?” Lip turns back to Ian, and then Fiona does too. Ian’s starting to feel like he’s the one on trial.

“I can’t tell you that,” he says stubbornly. “I promised.”

“Well, as long as you fucking promised that’s ok then.” Lip’s almost shouting now, face twisted, and Ian clenches his fists, tries to breathe. Tries to remember that Lip’s just worried about Carl, just like Fiona is. Just like Ian is.

“I didn’t—” Breathe. _Breathe._ “Look, it was something that Robbie did to Mickey’s family, ok? He stole a bunch of money from them, and from his parents, and he spent it all on drugs. But I can’t tell you the other thing. I _can’t_.” He looks beseechingly as Fiona, who fixes her eyes on him for a moment, like she’s trying to figure something out, and then nods.

“Ok,” she says. “Ok.”

“No,” Lip says mulishly. “ _Not_ ok. This is Carl, Ian. Our brother. You can’t pick loyalty to that asshole over that.”

“Lip,” Fiona says tiredly. “It doesn’t matter about Robbie. We just gotta focus on Carl.”

Lip huffs out a sigh, shakes his head in defeat. “Whatever,” he says, and Ian knows that they’re going to have to have another conversation about this somewhere down the line before things are ok between them. Lip’s never taken well to Ian keeping secrets from him.

Ian takes it as a win for now though, and heads over to the table for an update from Clayton. His uncle’s still methodically reading through the file, a deep line between his eyebrows. “Hey,” Ian says, sliding another beer across to him. “Anything?”

Clayton sighs as Lip and Fiona join them at the table, Lip stubbornly refusing to look at Ian. “I don’t know,” their uncle says. “There’s a lot in here—the public defender actually took some decent notes,” he says looking across at Lip who just snorts and rolls his eyes, refusing to relinquish his victory. Clayton hastily looks away again, as if he’s afraid he’s made some sort of faux pas, and returns his attention to the file. “Carl didn’t tell him much, but it seems like he was previously involved in some sort of drug running about a year ago. Something to do with a gas bill?” He looks at Fiona this time, who pales almost instantly.

“Shit,” she mutters.

“Not about money, huh?” Lip says, mouth curling derisively.

“I don’t think it was, this time—” Clayton starts to say, but Fiona’s too busy answering Lip.

“I didn’t know where he got the money,” she’s saying, and Lip’s sneering back at her like he’s sizing up her weak points.

“But he did get you the money?”

“Yeah, but—”

“And you didn’t think to ask where it came from?”

“It was _freezing_.” Fiona’s anger explodes out of nowhere, and Ian flinches and then regrets it when he sees the look on Clayton’s face. “It was the middle of winter. We’d had no gas for two weeks, we were sharing fucking beds to keep warm,” Fiona continues, fixated on Lip as if Ian and Clayton have just melted from the room. “And Carl came home with the money for the bill, so yes I took it and got the heat turned back on. What the hell else was I supposed to do?”

“Ask him where he got it?” Lip shouts back. “Tell him to take it the fuck back and then call me or Ian for the money? Jesus Fiona.”

“Sure,” she says. “I should have called you two, _at college_ , and asked for money for the gas bill that I couldn’t pay because Liam was in hospital and I didn’t have insurance? Because you’re just sitting on piles of cash out there, right?”

“We’d have figured it out,” Lip insists, and Fiona just shakes her head.

“You weren’t _here_ ,” she says. “You’re not supposed to be worrying about us, ok? You’re supposed to be studying and taking exams and shit. When have I ever called you guys for help?”

“Well, maybe you should have,” Lip says, and then he pushes his chair out from the table, grabs his jacket and strides out of the back door, letting it bang shut behind him.

Fiona sighs, runs her hand over her face and then looks at Clayton. “Sorry,” she says, voice all fake and bright. “It’s been a long day, he just—”

Clayton nods, shifting uncomfortably as he answers. “It’s fine,” he says. “Understandable, of course.”

“You were saying that it wasn’t about money, this time,” Ian prompts him, trying to get off the subject of their family dysfunction. Clayton nods, and then clears his throat.

“Yes,” he says. “From what Carl told his lawyer, he was pushed back into his role against his will.”

Fiona looks disbelieving. “He told his lawyer that?”

“Well, not in so many words,” Clayton admits. “To, um, to quote directly, he said, ‘I’m not a fucking rat.’”

“That sounds more like it,” Fiona agrees.

“But what little he did say does suggest that perhaps he was being coerced, or trying to protect someone. I can ask him more when I take over his case officially.”

“You’re going to, then?” Ian asks. “You’re going to help him?”

Clayton smiles at him, a little uncertainly. “Of course,” he says. “We’re family.”

*

Clayton leaves not long after that, says he needs to get home to his family and then shoots a guilty look at Ian as soon as he’s said it. Ian’s just glad to get him out of the house, having spent the past two hours feeling oddly on edge, like two entirely separate universes were colliding and Ian was supposed to stop it somehow. It’s not a feeling he’s entirely proud of, but sitting round the Gallagher table with Clayton and his siblings is not an experience he’s looking to repeat anytime soon, although he doubts he’ll have much choice in that regard given the situation at hand.

Ian heads to bed after that, and runs through pretty much every mind-clearing exercise he can think of, tries to push down all the worry about Carl and the confusion about Mickey and the guilt about the burden Fiona always seems to end up carrying. He’s almost there, on the edge of sleep, when he remembers that he hasn’t taken his meds, and then when he thinks about it he can’t remember if he took them that morning either. Part of him doesn’t care, doesn’t want to get up and head downstairs to dig through his duffle bag to find them, but the other part of him is instantly awake, on alert. He gets back up with a sigh and pads softly downstairs in an attempt not to wake anyone.

As it turns out, he needn’t have worried; he’s on his second pill when he spots Fiona sitting out on the back porch, shoulders hunched over and shaking. He downs the last two pills in one, and then slips out the door to join her on the step. He knocks his shoulder against hers lightly, and then wraps his arms around her and squeezes her tightly.

“Ignore Lip,” he says. “He’s just pissed that he can’t do anything to fix it and he’s taking it out on everyone else.”

“No,” she says softly. “He’s right. This is all my fault.”

“You can’t think like that,” Ian says. “You can’t stop people fucking up, Fi.”

“It’s my job to stop you guys fucking up,” she points out, with a wry twist of her mouth. “I stood up in court and made it my job. I’m supposed to take care of you.”

“You _have_ ,” he says. “Way better than Frank or Monica ever did. We’re all doing ok, because of you. This doesn’t change that.”

She sighs, slides her arm around his waist and then rests her head on his shoulder for a moment before she answers. “I just— I finally thought I was getting it right this time,” she says. “I was too hard on Lip, too soft on you. For a while there it was like I’d found the balance with Carl.”

“Me and Lip are doing fine now,” he says. “And even if it took us a while to get there, that’s down to you. And look at Debbie. Debbie’s doing great.”

She smiles wanly at his attempt at reassurance. “I think that’s more down to Debbie than to me,” she says. “And it was touch and go there with you for a while. Really dropped the ball on that one.”

Ian’s stomach churns a little when she says that. It’s a discussion they’ve had before, and each time he hopes it’s the last. Fiona’s guilt just makes him feel worse, gives him guilt of his own. “You did fine,” he says, a little insistently, although it feels a little odd that she’s clearly thinking over the same points in time as he has been over the last few days. “No one ever told you how to take care of us, Fi. You were just winging it, fire-fighting the whole time. You can’t blame yourself if you drop a ball now and then, not with all you have to juggle. There’s five of us to worry about, and that’s a hell of a lot for anyone to handle.”

“Not this time,” she says. “There’s just Carl and Liam now, and I should’ve done something. Grounded him, or I dunno. Made him talk to me.”

Ian raises his eyebrows. “Carl?” he says, sceptically. “You and I both know Carl’s never taken well to people telling him what to do. You just gotta wait until he comes up with things on his own.” Like this last year, Ian thinks, when Carl had suddenly decided to start putting some effort in at school. Fiona had been trying to drill the importance of education into him for years, the way she had with the rest of them, but Carl had resisted, and then dug his heels in the harder she’d tried. Ian’s wondering now if these past run-ins with drug dealers maybe had something to do with Carl’s seemingly out-of-the-blue change of heart, his sudden push to do well in school and head off to college like his siblings. Either way, it’s going to take a lot to salvage all of the hard work their brother’s put in.

“Anyway,” she says, with an air of fake brightness that he knows means that she’s changing the subject. “What the hell is going on with you and Mickey Milkovich?”

Ian blinks. “I—” he says, and then shakes his head. “Nothing.”

She looks unimpressed. “Nothing my ass. You were pretty evasive earlier.”

“Big word,” he teases, and she swats at him.

“Shut it you, I fucking read. Stop avoiding the subject. What happened?” He takes a deep breath, and then exhales without a word and she narrows her eyes at him. “Ian, you didn’t?!” She looks half-disapproving and half-excited, and Ian feels the heat creep up his neck.

“No!” he exclaims, and then backtracks a little. “I might’ve…kissed him? A bit?”

“A bit?”

“OK, more than a bit. We were talking, and then we were arguing, and then—”

“You kissed him,” she says, matter-of-fact but the beginnings of a grin twitching at her lips.

“I didn’t mean to!” The heat’s right up in his cheeks now, his face burning hot enough that it could probably heat their house. “I just got kind of…caught up. And then I apologised and we talked some more and I dunno. I thought maybe we were getting somewhere new. But then all this happened, and he made it pretty clear how he feels about it.”

“Mickey knows?” she asks, surprised. “About Carl?”

“Well, he turned up right after Lip called. I was in a bit of a mess and he was worried, and then after I told him he just. He couldn’t wait to get out of there,” he says, deflating. “It’s obvious that he’s never going to want me again, not now.”

Fiona frowns. “But you never wanted him like that, Ian. You wouldn’t want him to still feel that way about you now, would you?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Ian says, and the frustration he’s feeling leaks into his tone. “I didn’t, and I thought I never would, but then when I saw him in New York he was…different. Nicer. More open. And I started thinking that maybe I did. It doesn’t matter now.”

Fiona squeezes him where her arm’s still wrapped around his middle. “You don’t know that,” she says.

“No, I do,” he says resignedly. “This whole thing doesn’t just affect Carl, y’know? It’s gonna look bad on all of us.”

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. Half our neighbourhood’s been up on drugs charges, or worse. They can hardly start waving pitchforks at us.”

“We don’t all live in this neighbourhood Fi,” he reminds her. “This could fuck things up for Lip if the media catch hold of it and Sheila needs to put out the fire. It could mess stuff up for me, or for Debbie, or for Liam even.” She raises her eyebrows, and he laughs. “Well I dunno. If he wants to be a cop or something.”

“A Gallagher become a cop?” she teases, and he can’t help but laugh in response.

“Well,” he says, still smiling. “It’d probably give Frank a fucking coronary. It’d be worth it.”

“Nothing kills Frank that easy,” she says, darkly. “Anyway, Liam’s eight. He can barely decide what he wants for dinner, I don’t think you need to worry about career plans just yet. Besides,” she says, and her smile widens a bit. “At the rate I’m going, Liam’ll be lucky if I let him leave the house alone before he’s 21.”

He has to stifle a yawn as he laughs, and she pushes at his shoulder and sends him back to bed, promising she’ll be heading up shortly herself. He finds it easier this time, to clear his mind and get to that place just before sleep takes hold. He sorts through the conversation with Fiona, files the Carl issue away to be dealt with tomorrow, puts Lip’s weirdness in a box to be looked at later when this is all over. He feels better about things, having talked them over with Fiona, even if they hadn’t really resolved any of it. He’s thinking about Mickey though, when he finally drops off, about the feeling of his body pressed against Ian’s, about damp hair and freshly pressed shirts and breakfast dates. He’s thinking about kissing Mickey Milkovich, for real this time and not because he’s worked up and angry, and he’s letting himself believe in it just for a moment, and he’s smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so I'm going to revise my "2 chapters left" from the end of the last chapter to probably three including this one? I got distracted by Gallagher family stuff so I ended up finishing the chapter earlier than I'd intended because otherwise it would have been enormous and also I wanted to get an update posted. I swear I will try and not take as long to update this time!
> 
> (also I feel like I should point out that I had intended Carl to get the Lydia storyline in this manner right from the start, before we knew about his S5 s/l. I promise, I really do like Carl ;-) )


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I am so so sorry about the time it took to update this. It was mostly real life (again) but also I was kinda frustrated with the show which didn't really help at all. Hope you enjoy!

When Ian wakes up the next morning, it’s with a distinct sense of discomfort. At first he assumes it’s the disorientation of needing a moment to remember exactly where he is, the remnants of too many beds in too few days, but as that starts to pass and he gets his bearings, he recognises the prickling sensation of being watched. As he blinks slowly, squeezes his eyes shut and then blinks again, he’s able to focus on the fact that Lip is staring at him from the foot of the bed.

His stomach clenches and he closes his eyes again, too tired and mind too busy to deal with the Lip thing, hoping that maybe if he pretends like he’s still asleep Lip might give up until later. No such luck.

“Mickey Milkovich?” Lip says, tone disbelieving, and Ian blinks at him again with bleary eyes. He sits up a little, rubs at his face and squints at his brother. “Mickey Milkovich?” Lip repeats, clearly frustrated with Ian’s confused expression. “Mickey _fucking_ Milkovich?”

“I know his name,” Ian finally sighs in response.

It doesn’t seem to improve Lip’s mood any. “How the hell did I not know about this?”

“I didn’t tell you,” Ian says vaguely, as he sits up further and reaches for the bottle of water he’d left beside his bed next to his pill dispenser. “How the fuck do you know now, anyway?”

“Heard you and Fiona talking last night,” Lip says. “Got back and saw you two out on the back step, I was gonna come out but then—”

“You thought you’d just eavesdrop instead,” Ian fills in. “Nice. You should apologise to Fiona, by the way.”

Lip stares at him as if the very suggestion is ridiculous. “No fucking way,” he exclaims indignantly. “If she’d dealt with this properly last year then none of this would have happened.”

“You don’t know that,” Ian says, as he takes a drink. “It’s not like Carl needs help getting into trouble.”

“Not recently,” Lip points out. “He’s been doing great. She should have called us.”

Ian shrugs. “It’s Fiona. Too proud to ask for help, you know that. Probably thought she was doing us a favour.”

“Too bad she didn’t do Carl one instead,” Lip quips.

Ian sighs. “She didn’t know what was gonna happen, ok? And she feels bad enough already without you making it worse.” He swings his legs round and plants his feet on the floor, stretching his back to one side until it cracks. Lip flinches, and Ian takes great pleasure in repeating the motion the other way.  “Look, Carl’s always been a loose cannon. He’d do a hell of a lot of stupid shit if he thought it would help out, and then once you add Robbie into the mix—”

“That’s another thing,” Lip butts in. “What gives with you keeping all this shit from us, huh?” Ian rolls his eyes, stands up fully and makes moves towards the bathroom. Lip, of course, is not dissuaded, and follows him down the hallway. “This is serious, Ian. Carl’s in serious trouble.”

Ian whips round, anger flaring. “You don’t think I know that? You don’t think I feel bad about it, that maybe I could have done something? But the truth is, that’s exactly how you feel too Lip, and you’re not gonna feel any better blaming it on me and Fiona, ok? It’s done, and all we can do now is figure out how to deal with it. Just go apologise for being a dick last night and then we can focus on getting Carl out of this instead of whose fucking fault it is.”

“I know whose fucking fault it is,” Lip bites back, always needing the last word, and Ian has to resist the urge to shove at him in sheer frustration.

“It doesn’t _matter_ ,” he says instead, enunciating his words clearly as if that might actually get Lip to back down. “We need to focus on helping Carl, and that means you need to make it right with Fiona.”

He’s surprised when Lip doesn’t put up an argument, just shrugs like it was no big deal in the first place. “Well,” he says, voice deceptively casual. “At least now I know why you were all gung-ho about keeping Mickey’s secrets, huh? Because you’re trying to get into his pants?” Ian opens his mouth to reply, and Lip holds up his hand. “I don’t want to know about you getting into his pants, ok?” he says with a grimace.

Ian rolls his eyes. “No-one’s getting into anyone’s pants. And definitely not now, after all this. That’s not why I won’t tell you. It’s because he asked me to, and I promised. That means something to me, even if it doesn’t to you.”

“Whatever,” his brother says. “You just better hope that keeping whatever that secret is won’t leave Carl in the shit.” He raises his eyebrows, looks at Ian like he’s setting down a challenge. Ian’s not in the mood for it.

“I already told you that it won’t, ok?” Ian says. “It’s nothing to do with any of this, I swear.”

 When Lip speaks again, his voice has dropped to the kind of gentle, patronising tone that makes Ian’s skin crawl. “Look, Ian. You sure about this?” Lip says. “You’re sure you’re ready, y’know after—”

“After what?” Ian throws back, defensively. “After I went crazy, you mean?”

“That’s not what I meant, Ian, I just—”

“Think I’m too fucked in the head to have an actual relationship?” Lip opens his mouth but Ian doesn’t give him the chance to cut in. “Like what, ever? It’s been a year, ok? I’m—” The words almost die in his throat, the _better_ he’d been intending to say sitting treacherously on his tongue like a bitter reminder of doctors and assessments and the bottles of pills in his room. “I’m stable now,” he says instead. “And I know what I feel.”

“But how do you, though?” Lip persists. “It’s a big risk, Ian. You’ve been doing so well, getting back on your feet, you really want to throw it away falling head over heels for some rich douchebag who’s never gonna feel the same?”

The words hit Ian harder than he expects. “What’s the point then?” he says, bitterly. “What’s the point, of the pills and the side effects and the doctors and how much it costs? If I don’t get to live? If I don’t get to be normal? What’s the point Lip, you tell me that?”

Lip opens and shuts his mouth, and Ian feels a perverse sense of satisfaction in rendering his brother speechless. “Exactly,” he says, voice curt as he makes it clear he’s done talking about this. “I’m going to take a shower, and then I’m going to call Clayton. Unless you want to come in and watch? Make sure I don’t get all _crazy_ and drown myself?”

He stalks into the bathroom before Lip has a chance to answer, and then he locks the door behind him, just in case.

*

They get to see Carl that afternoon, Clayton ringing them just before noon with the news. “Pulled a few strings,” he says, when Ian asks how he got them in so soon, and Ian feels guilty that he’s surprised how much effort Clayton seems to be putting into this. 

Clayton meets them outside the detention centre, file in hand. “It’s gonna be tough,” he says, when Fiona asks. “The drugs were on his person, and he’s refusing to talk. If he’d give up the supplier I could try and cut a deal but…” He tails off, looking apologetic. “To be honest, these kinds of cases the kids very rarely do. Too proud, too afraid.”

“Oh, he’ll talk,” Fiona says, mouth set in a determined line. “I didn’t spend the last year pulling him out of this shit for him to end up in jail.”

Clayton nods, avoids making eye contact, and then he looks at Ian. “I need to get back,” he says, tone apologetic. “I promised Lucy I’d take Jacob—”

“It’s fine,” Ian says, even though it’s not, it’s not fine, because what if actually he needs Clayton right now? And he doesn’t, he really doesn’t, but he wants Clayton to offer. Wants for once to be first in line. “Thanks,” he says instead. “For everything you’re doing.”

“Yeah,” Fiona adds. “We really appreciate it. We owe you a big one,” she says, and it’s light-hearted but Ian knows she means it. Knows the debt will weigh on her even if Clayton would never ask for it to be repaid.

When they finally get to the visiting room, through the ID checks and the third degree from the woman behind the desk and the searches from the guards, some of the kids are already there, talking to their families over the intercoms, but Carl’s not one of them. They’re directed to a particular booth, crowding into it with Fiona and Ian taking the seats and Lip standing awkwardly behind, and there’s a few minutes of painful, stilted silence before Carl shuffles out of the door and towards the window.

His face is pale, dark circles under his eyes, and the uniform he’s been given is clearly too big. It hangs over his shoulders like one of Ian’s hand-me-downs, and even though the legs are rolled up they still drag on the floor. There’s a bruise on his cheek, so fresh that it’s still blooming, and somehow he looks like he’s aged ten years over night, but also more vulnerable than Ian’s seen him in years.

Ian doesn’t miss the way Fiona’s hand flexes at her side, like she wants to reach through the glass, cup Carl’s face and demand to know who hurt him. Instead, she smiles at him as he sits, lifts the receiver and indicates for Carl to do the same.

“Hi, sweetie,” she says brightly. “How are you doing?” Carl doesn’t reply, and so Fiona keeps on talking as if they’re having a conversation. “I bet it’s not so great in there, huh? We gave them some money at the desk so you should be able to get what you need. Y’know, cigarettes, or candy, or an extra blanket.” Her voice cracks on the last word, and Carl flinches. It’s barely there, but Ian sees it.

“Thanks,” Carl mumbles, looking down at the table, at his feet, anywhere but at them.

“We spoke to Clayton,” Fiona says, in that same bright tone that’s making Ian’s teeth itch. It reminds him of before, of being holed up in bed after Lip brought him home, of Fiona acting like everything was ok as though it would suddenly make that the truth. It didn’t work then, and he’s really not clear on why she thinks it will work now. “He said you’ve got a good case.” Ian has to reign in the noise of protest he wants to make. “Said you just gotta tell them what happened, who gave you the drugs, and we can get you outta there.”

Carl obviously hasn’t mastered Ian’s level of self-control, and he snorts in disbelief. “Bullshit,” he says.

Fiona flinches this time, and then she drops the smile, the fake postitivity. “You quit this right now Carl Gallagher,” she says. “You tell them who gave you the drugs.”

“Can’t,” Carl says. “I got caught, I gotta take the hit.”

“That’s crap,” Lip interjects from behind Ian. “They’re the ones making money from this, Carl, and they’re putting kids like you out there to take all the risks for them. You can’t let them get away with it.”

“It’s not like that,” Carl shoots back, angry. “It’s a team. Everyone’s gotta do their bit.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a team if you’re stuck in here and they’re all out there,” Ian says. “Seems like they’ve just let you take the fall for all of them.”

“It isn’t like that,” Carl mumbles. “I fucked it up, I got caught. Robbie—” He cuts himself off, looks down at his hands like he hopes they won’t notice.

“Yeah, Robbie,” Fiona says. “I know all about him, pushing you into this, getting you back into all this shit and—”

“It’s not like that!” Carl says again, voice raised enough that Ian can feel it as the other visitors stare curiously their way. Carl sags back in his seat. “He was helping me,” he says. “I owed them, and he said he’d deal with it if I helped him.”

“Is this about the gas bill?” Fiona’s got that look on her face again, like last night, like it’s all her fault and no-one can tell her otherwise.

“I just wanted to help,” Carl says. “I just wanted enough for the bill. But they said I owed them, and I said I didn’t. And I thought it was cool, and then I saw Robbie at Lip’s party.” The memory hits Ian like a punch in the gut, Carl’s strange reaction to Robbie’s presence, how all of Carl’s weird behaviour had started right around then. The guilt burns like bile in his stomach, followed by a rush of anger and disbelief that Robbie somehow twisted Ian’s introduction to the Gallaghers and turned it to his own advantage. To this. More than ever, he feels like this is all his fault. He swallows hard, focuses on Carl’s sullen retelling of the whole sorry saga. “I thought maybe he wouldn’t remember,” Carl’s saying. “I bet loads of people owe them. But he remembered. He gave me his card, told me he’d help. I just had to do something for him first.”

“And it turned into lots of somethings?” Ian asks dryly, and Carl looks away. “It’s not your fault, Carl,” Ian says. “This is what Robbie does, takes advantage. It’s not your fault.” He can feel Lip’s eyes in his back, Fiona watching him. He doesn’t care. “It’s ok, Carl. Just tell them what happened.”

Carl’s head snaps up. “I’m not a fucking snitch,” he growls. “ _I_ got caught.”

Sometimes Ian thinks Southside Rules are a fucking self-defeating prophecy.

*

Things are subdued at home. They’re supposed to be getting ready for Christmas, supposed to be going through all the traditions they’ve made over the years when they had far less money and needed other ways to make it special, but none of them are in the mood for it. Debbie gets home the day after they visit Carl—the lack of either a secret father or a rich benefactor means she had to get the bus instead—and mostly they sit in silence, reading through the legal journals Lip checked out of the library. Every so often one of them speaks, mentions this case or that precedent, and it gets noted down to ask Clayton the next time they see him. Even Liam’s lost the holiday spirit, buried into Fiona’s side with his headphones on.

Clayton comes by at three o’clock, everyday like clockwork. He’s having trouble clearing it with Lucy, Ian can tell, checking his phone every couple of minutes and leaving again at three-thirty on the dot, but he’s there everyday regardless. They pass on their findings, and he smiles, and nods, and tells them how helpful this all is.

Ian’s fairly sure it’s not, that Clayton’s just being charitable, but he’s not gonna be the one to say anything.

*

The resolution, when it comes, is about as unexpected as the whole situation had been in the first place. It’s day eight, with only a few days to go now until Christmas, and the Gallagher is as downbeat as it has been all week. They’d been to see Carl the previous day, found him even more morose than before, and Ian had felt the sinking realisation that they could be making these visits for years to come. It’s a thought he’s yet to share with Fiona, who’s still determinedly positive that Clayton will fix everything, but from the brief words he’s exchanged with Lip—they’re still barely talking after their confrontation the previous weekend, despite Fiona’s disappointed looks every time they avoid each other—he knows it’s something Lip’s been thinking about too. Any hope of a good outcome is becoming increasingly slim.

It’s three-forty-five when Clayton finally makes his appearance, walking into the Gallagher house without knocking. They barely look up at first, all steadfastly focused on some documentary on the television that they’re pretending takes their minds off things, but then he clears his throat and their attention is reluctantly dragged away.

Clayton’s dressed in full-on business attire, rather than the smart-casual they’re accustomed too, and Carl is standing behind him, dressed in a suit that Ian’s never seen before. The room explodes into conversation, asking Clayton how this happened and if it’s permanent and what the hell is going on. Carl takes a step back, leans against the wall, looking down at his feet.

“We managed to cut a deal,” Clayton explained. “Got it down to a misdemeanour, with time served and community service. We were very, _very_ lucky.” Five faces turn and focus on Carl, who just shrugs noncommittally.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Fiona asks Clayton, life seeping back into her like Ian hasn’t seen since he came home. “We’d have come down to the court.”

“It was a last minute thing,” Clayton says, although Ian notices that he doesn’t make eye contact, that something about his body language is off. “And it was a closed hearing, so you’d all have had to wait outside anyway.”

If Fiona notices the shiftiness Ian’s picking up on, she doesn’t mention it. She’s too busy fussing over Carl, running her hands over his face, his hair, like she’s searching for evidence of everything that’s happened in the little more than a week that he’s spent out of her care. “I missed you, munchkin,” she says, hugging him tight. Carl doesn’t reciprocate at first, but then he relaxes into it, wraps his arms around her shoulders and buries his face into the crook of her shoulder. She strokes his hair, whispers into the space above his ear, and for the first time since all this started, Ian feels like it’s all going to be ok.

*

They throw themselves into the holiday preparation, after that.

“We’ve really got something to celebrate this year,” Fiona beams as she pins up their old handmade decorations. They all mumble their agreement, but Carl still seems detached, like he’s not quite left juvie behind yet.

Ian bides his time, until he finally finds Carl alone in his room late on Sunday afternoon. Carl’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, thumbing through an old comic book, and he barely looks up when Ian enters the room.

“Hey bud,” Ian says, trying not to fall into the Fiona-habit of the fake-bright voice. “Mind if I sit?” Carl shrugs, and Ian figures that’s about as much as he’s gonna get. He sits beside his brother, grabs another comic from the pile. They sit in silence for a while, reading side-by-side, until Ian ventures a little further. “How are you doing?” he says, looking across at Carl. “Gotta be strange being home again.”

Carl shrugs again. “Was only a week,” he mumbles, still focused on his book. “No big deal.”

“It is a big deal if that’s how it feels,” Ian says. “No-one can tell you how should feel about it.” Carl doesn’t respond, and Ian thinks maybe he’s on the right track. “Just because everyone’s glad you’re back, and ok, it doesn’t mean you can’t have different feelings about it, y’know.”

Silence falls again for a while, and it’s Carl who breaks it this time. “It’s not like I wanted to be there,” he says. “I’m glad I got out. It was… I don’t wanna go back.”

“Good,” Ian says. “You did the right thing, making that deal. I know you didn’t want to, but you gotta put yourself first sometimes.”

Carl snorts. “Didn’t have much of a choice,” he says. “They basically brought in the papers and told me to sign.”

“You had a choice,” Ian says. “And you made the right one, I promise.”

“They said Robbie would go to prison,” Carl says quietly. “For giving me the drugs.”

“And you feel bad about it?” Ian asks.

Carl thinks for a moment. “I dunno,” he says. “He _did_ give them to me. But it’s like it’s my fault he’s going to jail. If I hadn’t signed then—”

“Then _you’d_ be in jail,” Ian says. “Seems like this is the better option, dude.”

“Yeah,” Carl says. “I just. Couldn’t think with them all there badgering me, Clayton and the prosecutor woman and Mickey and—”

“Wait.” Ian interrupts, and Carl’s face goes white.

“Shit,” he mumbles, looking back down at his comic.

“Mickey was there?” Ian asks. “As in, Milkovich?”

Carl nods and looks back at Ian. “I wasn’t supposed to tell,” he says. They made me promise.”

Ian stands up, paces up and down the bedroom several times. His focus has suddenly shifted, and he desperately wants to press Carl for information, but he knows that wouldn’t be fair, knows from the way Carl’s looking at him with a worried expression that his brother’s already afraid he’s said too much.

There’s only one other person he can get answers from, and his phone is out of his pocket and to his ear before he’s even really thought about it.

*

It doesn’t take much to get Clayton to talk. They meet three blocks from Ian’s house, bundled up against the bitter cold. His uncle puts up a meagre defence, but as soon as it’s clear that Ian already knows that Mickey was involved _somehow_ , Clayton sighs and admits defeat.

“He arrived on Tuesday,” he said. “I don’t know what he did, but he had a whole file of evidence against Pratt. He came to me first, insisted I take it to the DA under my own name. Of course, she wouldn’t accept it, said it couldn’t be verified. So I went back, told him thanks for the offer but it hadn’t worked out.”

Ian doesn’t know what to think, can’t understand why Mickey would have chosen to involve himself in this when he’d seemed so set on distancing himself from Ian when they’d last seen each other. “So why was he at the hearing then?” he asks Clayton, and Clayton sighs.

“I thought it was the last I’d seen of him, that maybe he’d had the file already and was just trying to do his bit. But he came back to me on Thursday, with his sister. Said they wanted to make an official statement about their history with Robbie, about what he’d done to their family. DA took a bit more notice of that,” he adds dryly.

“Wait,” Ian says. “He told you? About what Robbie did to Mandy?”

“Getting her hooked on drugs, stealing her inheritance? Yes,” Clayton said. “They both made full statements, backed up with some pretty watertight evidence. They were determined to get Robbie put away. Once we had those, it was just a matter of Carl admitting that Robbie was his supplier, and the deal practically came gift-wrapped.”

Ian feels strangely light-headed. “But. But he went to so much trouble to keep that a secret. He told me he had court orders and all sorts preventing it from getting out. Why would he suddenly want to make a police statement about it?”

Clayton looks at him strangely. “I’d have thought that was obvious,” he says softly, and then he sighs. “Anyway, his only condition was that I not tell you, that I take the credit for keeping Carl out of jail. And I’ll be honest, Ian. I wanted to do this, for you. I wanted to be able to give you something, to make up for—” He waves vaguely. “For everything. And if I couldn’t do it myself, this was the least I could do.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Ian says. It’s automatic, refuting Clayton’s imaginary debt, but then he realises that he means it. “I never wanted for you to come and take me away,” he says, the closest either of them has ever come to admitting their connection out loud. “This is my home, my family. There’s nothing you could’ve done for me. I’m ok, here. But thank you, for helping with Carl. Even if Mickey did…” He trails off, really not sure at all how to describe what Mickey has done for Carl. For Ian. “Even if he did. You were still the one taking care of Carl, making sure he had everything he needed. So thanks. We appreciate it.”

Clayton nods, seemingly happy enough with the sentiment. They part ways, shaking hands like they’re almost strangers, and Ian walks the long way home. There’s too much to think about for him to be in the house just now, too much to process.

He wants to believe what Clayton said, that Mickey came here and helped Carl and that maybe, just maybe, there’s a ghost of a chance.

But then, he has to wonder, if that’s the case, why Mickey wanted it a secret, hasn’t made contact, hasn’t been to see him. And somehow, that thought is more painful than his belief that Mickey was no longer interested, because it seems such a long shot, seems so unlikely that Mickey would do that, if he still wanted to be with Ian. Surely, Ian decides as he rounds the corner of his street, that if that were his reasoning he’d be here now, telling everyone how he’d saved Carl from certain ruin.

And so all Ian can conclude is that Mickey doesn’t feel that way at all. That it’s over now. For good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, one more chapter to go! 
> 
> Hopefully it'll be done fairly quickly. No promises though, given that I always fail to keep them.


	14. Chapter 14

The decision not to tell anyone is an easy one to make. Partly because he still intends on standing by his promise of secrecy about Mandy’s past with Robbie, regardless of who she and Mickey might choose to share it with, but there’s also something else, something more selfish. He can’t face the inevitable pity from Fiona, the told-you-so from Lip, the endless explaining to everyone who’s still under the impression that he hates Mickey’s guts, and so he presses the hurt down deep and puts on a brave face to help Fiona with the Christmas arrangements. She’s decided, at the last minute of course, to cook a full-on dinner for everyone, the Gallaghers and Kev and Vee and the twins, and so they all spend two days scouring every supermarket in a two mile radius for last minute deals and a turkey that doesn’t look as if it’s been in the freezer since before Liam was born. It’s a tall ask, but between them they get most of the stuff on the list, and they have a fair bit of fun picking out ridiculous substitutes for the things that they don’t. It’s a huge contrast to the week before, when Christmas had been cancelled for the foreseeable future.

Fiona toasts Clayton in his absence at dinner on Christmas Day, credits him for Carl’s release, for the fact that they’re all together for Christmas like every year previously. Ian raises his glass along with everyone else, but the words stick in his throat; whatever he said to Clayton, he knows that he’s not the one they should all be grateful to. He’s still struggling to get his head around it all if he’s honest, Mickey swooping in, risking his and Mandy’s reputations for Carl’s sake and then leaving without a word. It doesn’t make sense, and that’s what frustrates Ian the most, what keeps him up at night playing the trip to New York over and over. He can’t seem to put the pieces together, to link the old Mickey to the new Mickey, to the Mickey who seemed desperate to get away from him to the one who went to such lengths for the sake of Ian’s family. Eventually, the day after Christmas, he decides that it doesn’t matter. It was a kind and decent thing, one that Ian wishes he could make everyone aware of, to prove that that version of Mickey he spoke about really does exist, and more than anything Ian wishes he could thank him for it, but it’s pretty clear he’s never going to get the opportunity and so really he just needs to put it behind him. Move on.

That plan is thrown off kilter not even two days later when Fiona gets home from work almost two hours early. He’s sitting watching cartoons with Liam when she gets in, slamming the door behind her and storming past the sofa without a word of greeting to either of them. He hears her throwing her bag down in the kitchen, and the opening of the fridge door and then the bang as she aggressively slams it shut again. He sighs, rubbing a hand over Liam’s head as he stands up. He’s a little hesitant as he enters the kitchen, finding Fiona standing leaning against the counter with a beer in hand. She looks up at him, reading the silent question on his face, and straightens up, pacing up and down twice before she answers it.

“Fucking asshole,” she says, and then takes another drink. “Shows up there like nothing happened, like it’s all cool. ‘ _Hey Fiona_ ,’” she mimics. “ _‘Been a while_.’ Yeah, no fucking shit given that _he_ fucking took off without a word.”

“Jimmy?” Ian asks. It’s a little redundant sure, there’s literally no-one else Fiona could be talking about, but he feels the need to say something. He’s just not really sure what. Honestly, mostly he’s really curious as to why Jimmy’s suddenly back in town, whether the timing’s just a coincidence, and he’s not sure whether he hopes it is or isn’t. He’s not sure if he’s hoping Mickey’s come back with Jimmy or not either.

“Ugh, who else,” she affirms, sitting back at the counter and resting her head on her arms. “I was just starting to be ok with it,” she mumbles into her elbow. “And then he shows back up and fucks it all up again.”

Ian sits on the other stool beside her and swipes a drink from her beer. “What happened?” he asks.  “You guys talk?”

“No,” she says, raising her head a little. “He came in and did some pep talk briefing thing about how well we’ve all done this year. Kept looking over at me, all fucking puppy dog eyes. Put you to shame,” she says with a weak grin. “And then after he came over, tried to make conversation like we’re just acquaintances, y’know. Like none of that shit happened. So I, um. I punched him in the face. And then I left before he had chance to fire me.” She sniffles, and Ian reaches over to rub her back.

“Maybe he wasn’t going to fire you,” he offers, and she huffs out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“You miss the part where I punched him in the face?”

“You never know,” Ian jokes. “Maybe he’s got a kink for it or something.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Gross.” She takes the beer back, pausing while she takes a drink. “Guess it’s job-hunting time again. Was good while it lasted.”

Ian hesitates for a moment before he says anything in response. He doesn’t want to give his sister false hope, but equally he can’t help but think that an end of year briefing sounds like a pretty thin reason to head to Chicago in the depths of winter. It’s clear to him that for all Fiona’s bravado, seeing Jimmy again has brought all of those old feelings rushing to the surface, that she’s not as indifferent to Jimmy’s affections as she might pretend. He wants to be right about this. Just this once, he wants one of them to get the story they deserve.

“You should give him a call,” he says, hedging his bets. She looks up at him, eyebrows arched. “I’m serious. It’s a good job, right?”

“Not good enough to make nice over,” she says scornfully. “I’d rather shovel shit. Literally,” she adds. “Sewage plant’s probably got shifts going.”

“And if it’s not just for the job?” Ian pushes a little harder. “If he’s here to apologise?”

“He’s not,” she says firmly. “And if he is, he’s doing a piss-poor job of it.”

Ian can’t argue with that. “True,” he acknowledges. “But he might get better at it if you give him a chance.”

“I don’t want a stupid apology,” she exclaims, sitting up straight. “I want him not to have left. I want to go back to last summer when it was all just a bit of fun, playing dress-up for nice dinners. I want to stop feeling so shitty when _I_ didn’t do a damn thing wrong.”

“No, you didn’t,” Ian agrees. “But maybe he feels just as shitty?”

“I hope so,” she says. “He fucking deserves to.”

“And you deserve to enjoy it,” Ian says. “Make him suffer a little.”

A slow smile spreads across Fiona’s face. “Maybe you’re right,” she says. “Could have a little fun with it.”

“Yeah,” Ian says. “I think you could.”

*

Jimmy picks Fiona up two days later, in a newer car than last time, and probably a newer suit. He greets them all with a smile and a wave that seems somehow cautious and confident all at once, and he’s rewarded with contempt from Lip and Debbie, and indifference from Carl and Liam. Ian smiles at him, hoping it seems encouraging. He’s pretty sure that if Jimmy’s gotten this far, faced Fiona’s wrath and still come here to face her siblings in order to get back in her good graces, then he’s probably here for the reason Ian hopes he is. The assumption is backed up further when just as the atmosphere in the room gets decidedly icy, Fiona steps into the room and just like that all Jimmy’s attention is on her and it’s like no-one else exists.

Fiona seems to notice the atmosphere though and she shifts uncomfortably, pulling awkwardly at the straps of her dress. “I won’t be late,” she says to no-one in particular, as if she feels the need to make it clear. “Save me a beer.”

“We will,” Lip says shortly, glaring at Jimmy from his position of the sofa. “Might even save two.”

“Lip,” Ian hisses and Lip snorts and mutters something under his breath that Ian hopes neither Jimmy nor Fiona make much sense of.

“Um, see you all later then,” Jimmy says as they head out.

“Oh, we will,” Debbie retorts menacingly. The door has barely closed behind them when she rounds on Ian. “Are you actually on board with this?”

Ian rolls his eyes. “It’s Fiona’s life, Debs. And I think he really does love her. I think that’s why he came back.”

Lip snorts again. “Mickey Milkovich tell you that too, did he?” he scoffs. “That guy messed Fiona around and you’re all for her rolling over for him?”

“Not rolling over,” Ian argues back. “Just giving him a chance to explain himself. The rest’s for her to decide.”

“Well, I never figured you for the ‘forgive and forget’ type,” Lip says.

“Maybe I wasn’t,” Ian says. “And maybe I realised I was wrong.”

“We’ll see,” Lip says with a shrug.

“Yeah, we will,” Ian replies. “And we’ll support Fiona whatever she decides. We owe her that.”

Lip doesn’t say anything, but Debbie sits beside him and says, “Ian’s right. Fiona supports us no matter what we do.”

Carl nods in agreement, and then they all look expectantly at Liam who’s looking between them all in turn.

“Can we watch Spiderman cartoons now?” he says eventually, and they all start laughing almost in sync.

“Sure buddy,” Lip says. “Of course we can.”

*

Ian’s sitting on the porch when Fiona gets home just before midnight. The shaking from his last round of meds is still subsiding, and he’s drinking a beer painfully slowly in the hope that the restraint will somehow shut off his brain. Too much has happened, too much is still happening, and somehow he can’t seem to let go. Maybe it’s because deep down he doesn’t want to, and maybe he knows that, but right now he’d just like five minutes of quiet in his head.

Jimmy’s driving slowly, and when he pulls into the kerb they sit in the car for a few minutes more before Fiona eventually gets out. Ian stares down at his hands, traces the words on the beer can, avoids looking at the car. He doesn’t look up until he hears it pull away, and by then Fiona’s halfway to the house. She stops as she meets his eyes, hesitant as if she’s expecting judgement.

“Well?” he prompts, when the waiting becomes too much, and she smiles and then the words pour out of her like water.

“He loves me,” she says, and her voice is full of wonder as if she’s only just become aware of the possibility. “He said he always loved me, that he’s sorry he was a coward, that he was afraid I didn’t feel the same. I just— Ian, he loves me.”

“I know,” Ian says with a laugh. “He’s never been good at hiding that.”

She sits beside him, leaning her head on his shoulder. “I’m so…happy,” she says. “I didn’t know I could ever feel like this, you know? Just content.”

“I’m glad,” Ian says, and he means it. For all he can’t entirely blame Mickey for Jimmy’s leaving, he’s fairly certain that enough has changed, enough has passed, that it’s not going to happen again, and no-one deserves happiness more than Fiona. She’s given up enough, for all of them, that she deserves this now.

“I just wish everyone could have this,” she says softly. “To feel as happy as I do now.”

Ian wraps an arm around her shoulder, kisses the top of her head. “Right now," he says. "Nothing could make me happier.”

*

Jimmy holds a party for New Year.

The Gallaghers accept his invitation under duress, the shame of the last one still vivid in their memories. “Water under the bridge,” he says, beaming at them. “A new start, all round. I think we all need it.”

No-one can really argue with that after the last year, and so they arrive a little after nine, sharing a vow between them to go easy on the alcohol and keep the entire thing a secret from Frank. They’re glad to find it’s a quieter affair than the last time, just them and Jimmy with a few “close friends”, as Jimmy describes them.

When Ian first sees him, Mickey has his back to the room, talking to his sister who’s dressed in dark blue and holding hands with a shorter woman with blonde hair who looks oddly familiar to Ian. He’s plotting his exit when Mandy spots him, face lighting up and calling his name. She touches Mickey’s shoulder, and then bounds over, pulling her girlfriend with her. Ian can’t help but look past her, can’t help but see Mickey look away and then leave the room like he can’t even breathe the same air as Ian any more. Ian feels like something heavy just landed in his stomach, and not even seeing Mandy again can make it feel better.

“I missed you!” she says, hugging him tight. “You left New York without even telling me, asshole.”

“Sorry,” he says, voice tight. “Family emergency, y’know.” He remembers then that she does know, of course she does. He feels like he’s in a play without a script.

“It’s cool,” she says, and she smiles reassuringly. “This is Karen,” she says, gesturing to the other woman. “She’s—”

“Sheila Jackson’s daughter?” Ian can’t help but laugh at the realisation. “I mean, you probably don’t remember, but I came to stay with Sammi last summer.”

“I remember,” Karen says with a grin. “Lip Gallagher’s less obnoxious brother. Who could forget?”

Ian gets the distinct impression that being Lip’s brother is not all she remembers him for. “Um, yeah,” he says. “I should probably apologise actually—I was kinda rude to your mom at dinner that time.”

“Oh, don’t apologise,” she says. “Totally warranted, I promise. Anyway, I’ll leave you two to catch up. I heard they’re setting up speakers in the other room, and I don’t trust Jimmy’s taste in music.” She leans up, kisses Mandy soft and quick. “Catch you in a bit babe.”

Ian raises his eyebrows at Mandy, and she grins back at him. “Am I lucky or what?” she says proudly as they head towards the kitchen.

“Pretty lucky I’d say,” he replies, grabbing them a drink each from the fridge. “She seems nice.”

“She is,” Mandy says. “ _Very_ nice.”

“How’s Sheila take it? I heard she was all set on Mickey for a son-in-law?”

Mandy laughs. “Yeah, well I think we all know _that’s_ never gonna happen. Sheila doesn’t know shit. Half the time she treats Karen like she’s still thirteen. She’ll find out eventually, but Karen doesn’t give a shit what she says so neither do I.”

“That’s pretty brave,” Ian says. He’s marvelling a little how Mandy can care so little about people’s impression of her when Mickey seems to care so much, seems to go to such great lengths to hide the truth so people only see what he allows them to.

“Not really,” Mandy says. “Life’s too short to be unhappy.” She looks at him as she says it, as if she’s not really talking about herself anymore.

“I’m happy,” Ian says defensively.

“Are you?”

“Yes. Things are good, Fiona’s happy, my family’s safe. I’m…I’m ok. That’s enough.”

“Hmm.” Mandy takes a drink, watches him as he does the same. “And that’s all? That’s where you’re setting the bar?”

Ian suddenly doesn’t want to talk about this, doesn’t want to explain to his friend that anything else is wishful thinking, that pining after her brother won’t change the facts, won’t change that Mickey can’t even look at him now.

“It has to be,” he says. “I can’t— I can’t think about things I can’t have, Mandy. It’s not good for me.”

“Maybe,” she says. “But maybe you’re selling yourself a little short too.”

“Maybe,” Ian echoes. “But maybe it’s easier that way.”

“For who?” she exclaims, and Ian flinches. “Look, my brother might not tell me much, but he gives away more than he thinks. I know something happened between you.”

“Maybe it did,” Ian says. “But whatever it was, it isn’t happening any more. And that’s not down to me.”

Mandy just looks at him, and Ian wonders how much she already knows.

*

He hovers around the party until around eleven-thirty, hangs around with Mandy and Karen, plays some pool with Carl, sneaks a couple of drags on Lip’s joint. It’s laid-back and easy, and he could almost convince himself that what he said to Mandy was true were it not for Mickey constant non-presence, the way the other man seems uncomfortable every time they almost end up in each other’s company.

He’s in the kitchen getting water to offset the beer he’s drunk when he hears someone come in behind him and curse softly. He turns just as Mickey’s leaving, and Ian can’t take it anymore.

“Mickey,” he blurts out, before he can stop himself. Mickey stops and turns to look at him, his expression unreadable. “I just— I’ve been trying to figure out how to thank you, for what you did for Carl, for all of us. For Fiona too, I think. It was— I can’t explain how much you’ve done for us. For me.” He looks at Mickey then, straight in the eye so that he can remember this, remember the connection being strong and real.

Mickey smiles. “You don’t need to thank me,” he says. “I should’ve dealt with Robbie long before now, and I let my pride get in the way of that. Couldn’t bear to let people see what he’d done to my family. It was my mess to fix; if I’d done things differently, your family never would’ve got caught up in it.”

“Even so,” Ian says, determined to say his piece. “What we owe you, we can never repay that.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Mickey says. “Your family definitely doesn’t. For all I like them, admire the way you guys stick together, I wasn’t thinking about them.” He’s the one looking straight at Ian now, unflinching. “I did it for you, Ian. It was all for you.”

Ian freezes, his heart pounding. There’s a lump in his throat all of a sudden, and he has so much he wants to say, so much, and he’s wishing, hoping, maybe even praying a little that—

“Look,” Mickey says. “You’re a decent guy, so be upfront with me. If you still feel the way you did in the summer, if—”

“Mickey,” Ian says hoarsely.

“Let me finish, ok? If that’s how you feel, just tell me straight. Tell me, and I’ll never bother you again, I swear. But if it’s changed, if there’s even the smallest part of you that might—”

“Mickey,” Ian says again. Mickey stops this time, takes a deep breath and looks at him again. “It’s changed,” Ian says, clear and decisive. “It’s changed, I’ve changed, Mickey I—”

Mickey surges forward, and this time it's Mickey who kisses him.

It’s slow at first, hesitant, with Mickey’s hand on Ian's face and a barely there brush of lips, and then he gets a little bolder and maybe Ian does too, kissing Mickey back with his hand cupping the back of his head. Mickey’s thumb strokes against his cheek, and Ian slides his tongue against Mickey’s, and he feels Mickey shaking as he presses harder against Ian, as Ian’s other arm slides around his waist.

When Mickey pulls away, Ian can sense his reluctance, but Mickey’s looking up at him apprehensively. “You’re sure?” he asks. “Last summer—”

“I was an asshole,” Ian says, cutting in.

Mickey laughs, and Ian feels it vibrate against his arms. “Yeah, pretty sure I was a bigger asshole. You didn’t say anything I didn’t deserve.”

“We were both assholes,” Ian agrees. “I’m glad we’re not anymore.”

“Me too,” Mickey says, and then he kisses Ian again. “Mandy told me she spoke to you,” he says, still close enough to Ian that he can feel Mickey’s breath against his face as he speaks. “I didn’t send her digging for info, I swear.”

“Nah, it’s cool,” Ian says, and he kisses Mickey, savours the taste of him. “I think she was looking out for both of us.”

“Probably,” Mickey says, mouth against Ian’s throat. “Whatever she was doing, it gave me hope, y’know. Like maybe there was a chance. I knew if you weren’t interested you’d have no problem making it clear to anyone who asked.”

Ian laughs. “I guess my reputation precedes me.”

“Fuck,” Mickey sighs. “What was it you said? ‘The last man on earth I would _ever_ want to be with.’” He laughs at his own impression of Ian, but Ian cringes.

“Don’t remind me,” he says. “I was so wrong, Mickey.”

“It’s alright,” Mickey says, smirking at him. “I forgive you. Kiss me again.”

And Ian does, kisses Mickey again and again, kisses him through the countdown in the other room and as the New Year comes in, kisses him over and over until they’re breathless and panting.

“Happy New Year,” he whispers against Mickey’s lips, and he feels indescribably, deliriously happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that'll be that then. Or almost, anyway - I maybe (probably) will end up writing an epilogue because idk if I like ending it there? But that might take a while so for now this is the end.
> 
> Once again thank you all so much for sticking with me through my sporadic updates, and for reading and commenting and kudosing (totally a verb, ok) and reblogging on tumblr. I'm so glad you enjoyed reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> You can find me at allidon.tumblr.com


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